Sherlock Holmes: The Adventures of the Basement Neighbor
by ItsLevi0sa
Summary: Evelyn Bennett is adjusting to life after tragedy and attempting to settle down in a still slightly musty 221C Baker Street. She's quickly roped into unexpected escapades including but not limited to: imaginary snakes, mysterious deaths, explosives, and Sherlock Holmes.
1. Chapter 1

Hi all! Just quickly wanted to say, I started writing this _four _years ago (I know) and just decided to get back into writing regularly and felt the urge to roll with this. Also, I haven't watched Sherlock in five years? But I'm enjoying having more of a fresh mind in regards to this story and these characters. Most storylines will of course be pulled from the series (or John's blog) but I'll be throwing in some random arcs of my own as is apparent in this first chapter. Anyways, enjoy.. Hopefully :-)

x

I rested my forehead against the coolness of the car window as I watched the familiar London rain collect on the Baker Street sidewalks. I had lost track of time as I sat in the worn driver's seat, but I knew there were sizable puddles that had somehow formed in the few or possibly many minutes that I'd been seated there. I also knew that the man standing in front of Speedy's Café was avoiding his wife while he pretended to make a phone call, only muttering and nodding when she rapped sharply on the window behind him. I smiled slightly when he scratched the top of his wool cap and said goodbye to a blank cell phone screen, walking dejectedly inside.

I'd always been more inclined to notice the details that no one else seems to (or cares to). Even as a young girl I would find myself focusing and fixating on the obscure and the extraneous. My father found it humorous when I would walk away from a film having paid more notice to discrepancies in the amount of milk in a glass or bites out of a piece of toast than I did to major plot points.

I felt something gently brush my side, pulling me out of the saga of the Speedy's stranger that I had been mentally establishing. I mindlessly reached down to pet the smoky grey cat as I murmured, "What do you think? Time to go inside?"

Normally I don't mind change; rather, I embrace it and compartmentalise when necessary. Though, as I stared out into the rain at my new flat with nothing but some boxes of family heirlooms, clothing, and kitchen utensils in my backseat, I couldn't help but feel as though my life were in a state of complete upheaval. When my mother had passed away months before I allowed myself to cry, reflected fondly on the past, then quickly repressed emotions and tried my best to move forward with my chin held high. When my father then sold our home and many of our more unnecessary belongings to move to France, I bought him an espresso maker and helped him pack. When it came to be my turn to embrace a new life trajectory, I finally succumbed to the feeling that I was in a state of absolute and irreversible change, for better or for worse. My move to a new flat was the beginning of a new chapter in my life, and it provided closure to the twenty-seven years leading up to it.

I fished a crumpled envelope out of my glove compartment and shook its few contents onto my lap; a silver key and a note tidily scrawled in purple ink:

_Key is for the front door_

_You may want to leave the door open for ventilation_

_I did try my best to get rid of the mold smell._

_\- Martha Hudson_

Having known Mrs. Hudson for a number of years, I did not doubt that she had spent a fair amount of time wandering around the basement flat, perhaps spraying various perfumed cleaners on the walls and ceiling, muttering about the uselessness of professionals. Mold and all, I was thankful for the flat.

I cradled my compliant feline companion and made my way into the unremitting drizzle, instantly comforted by the warm air that greeted me when I pushed open the heavy front door. The building smelled of woodsmoke, coffee, and cedar, which instantly melted away my few hesitations. I had never actually visited the flat, as when Mrs. Hudson mentioned the inexpensive basement vacancy at my father's going away dinner party I was quick to accept the offer. I'm typically not one to make decisions quickly or carelessly, but in that moment the thought of doing something rather reckless and spontaneous had greatly appealed to me.

"221C." I muttered to myself, "Right, just past the staircase."

I glanced up the wooden stairs that lead to 221B as my mind wandered to my new neighbours. I had heard Mrs. Hudson speak of the two men when she would visit my parents' old home to play cards and Cluedo. Though her words were affectionate, there was always a hint of exasperation that was invariably loving and familial. On one occasion she had insisted that I read John Watson's blog, stating from behind her glass of wine, "John writes occasionally, bless him. Sometimes he's so desperate for content the poor dear even writes about me."

I had skimmed a few entries, admittedly reluctantly, and was surprisedly sucked into reading about the various cases he pursued. I was also intrigued by the "madman" partner and roommate he wrote about, though I think all of those in London that bothered to carefully read the news were as well.

"Ah, here we are then." I quietly said as I stepped through the door to 221C, watching the cat lazily jump onto the creaky hardwood floor. The living area smelled strongly of lavender, which I assumed was the scent of whatever Mrs. Hudson had used in her attempted mildew eradication. I surveyed my rather derelict surroundings, inwardly thanking the landlady for providing the space with necessary and bulky pieces of furniture. I knew that once I arranged my belongings, threw some logs into the fireplace, and smoothed on a fresh layer of wallpaper that it had the potential to be agreeable and cosy. I couldn't help but find its shabbiness to be charming.

I trusted my cat as I left the door open on my way to retrieve his food and boxes of my possessions. At this point I'd had the old boy for eleven years; since I'd found him as a kitten wandering the streets of South Kensington on a chilled December evening. I had chased him determinedly for hours, surrounded by Londoners and tourists doing their last minute Christmas shopping and unwilling to help a teenage girl run after a small stray.

I dashed to the car and gathered one of the large cardboard boxes containing things I'd kept from my parents' home but objectively didn't need; a patterned lampshade with a fringe of string tassels, a gold frame housing David Bowie's written response to my mother's fan letter, and my father's stained copy of Julia Child's cookbook to name a few articles.

"I won't need the book in France," Dad claimed while pushing his round, tortoiseshell spectacles up the bridge of his nose, "because I'd like to think I will be living the recipes as opposed to reading them."

I continued to jog back and forth from building to car, successfully transporting nearly everything inside in a matter of minutes. The drizzle didn't cease, but I appreciated that it prodded me to be more efficient. As I walked briskly to the front door cradling my last box, I heard someone shout my name and turned to see none other than a waving Mrs. Hudson with a plasticine rain bonnet tied around her head.

"Mrs. Hudson," I said, more so to myself, grinning and squinting because of the soggy weather. "How are you?"

"Oh, I'm fine. Inside, inside." she urged as she nudged me towards the front step. "We don't have to catch up in this miserable weather. Did you just get in?"

"Moments ago," I nodded appreciatively as she held the door open for me, "I've just finished unloading my things, though that wasn't anything too strenuous."

"I was hoping I'd be here to see you in, dear. I just had to pop down to the corner store to pick up some tea as I'm afraid the boys had cleaned out the stash." I noticed a few dark bottles in her bag when I glanced down, noting that there was another stash of hers that had also needed replenishing.

"Have the boys made their presences known yet?" She questioned. "I imagine they haven't. They can be so reclusive until they want a cup of warm drink..." I heard her mutter to herself as she carried her groceries towards her door.

I'd always appreciated conversations with Mrs. Hudson as she often seems to answer her own questions without seeking a lengthy response.

"Do you want a cup of morning tea?" She questioned from the hall. "I'll make you tea as long as you live here, but only if you join me in drinking it. I can be your company but not your housekeeper."

"That would be grand, Mrs. Hudson." I punctuated my response with a heavy thud as I ungracefully dropped my sentimental junk next to the sofa on my living room floor. After a rain drenched early morning of both thinking and driving in circles I could think of no better or more soothing tonic.

"Change out of those wet clothes in the meantime, dear. I'll holler when it's nearly ready." She waved as she made her way into 221B.

I smiled inwardly at the exchange as I dug through a bundle of my clothing, unearthing a knit jumper and black jeans. I held the cable knit material to my face and inhaled deeply, glad that I gave into the sporadic urge when the comforting scent of home met my senses. It was a nostalgic mix of cinnamon and the forest of herbs that we had grown in our kitchen. I'm sure there are those that found it pathetic that a woman well into her twenties had still been living with her parents, but I had been content with the arrangement and not entirely keen on braving the London housing market alone if I had no need to. My parents had for decades owned this house that was, quite frankly, too large. Without trying I could have spent days going about my business at home without making contact with mum or dad because of the layout. Smaller spaces had always made me feel more comfortable. I thought of our old forest of kitchen herbs now strewn in a sad heap in a sludgy garden that no longer belonged to us and closed my eyes; no more thoughts of decay. No more.

I stood in front of the bathroom mirror after changing and giving myself a quick and informal tour of the flat, hesitantly surveying my reflection for the first time in what had felt like ages. My tired hazel eyes no longer looked red or irritated, and hadn't in awhile, though the dark circles underneath them remained noticeable. They always were. I ran a hand through the ashy dark brown waves that echoed my mother's; curls that had become more pronounced after prolonged exposure to the rain. I was often told that I was a perfect clone of my mother, which was a remark that I considered to be a great compliment, but one that I inwardly declined and could never fully accept. With her large and inquisitive eyes, gorgeous cheekbones, sloping nose, and dark brows, she had been a classic beauty. When I looked at my reflection I didn't see any of the compassion or warmth that her features had so effortlessly possessed, which was what had made her beautiful.

An effectively loud and simple call of "Tea!" pulled me away from the mirror before I could further attack my self esteem.

I quickly pulled on my old leather boots and shuffled across the hall, following the aroma that was wafting out of the oven upstairs.

"That smells wonderful, whatever it is." I sighed and stretched as I wandered into the flat.

"Scones. I also have some store bought biscuits on hand if these turn out anything like my last attempt." She said while worriedly opening the oven door.

"Even if they came out tasting like rocks the smell would be well worth-" My comment was cut short by the slamming of a nearby door and the sound of two voices engaged in a seemingly heated conversation.

"Don't be daft, John." I heard a deep voice declare as it mixed with the sound of feet ascending creaky stairs. "Few _humans_ can be commanded to play such a role in someone else's dark bidding, let alone something as vacuous and impassive as a snake. A caged snake, no less."

"You're calling me daft, now? I'm not the one ignoring the only concrete piece of evidence we've obtained. A snake is a snake, regardless of its upbringing!"

"And I suppose a snake charmer is a snake charmer, regardless of whether or not he communicates with a toodley thing? What astonishing legitimacy."

"It appears as though The Man That Sees Everything is really just an imperceptive bast-"

"Tea, Mrs. Hudson!" The deep voice thundered from down the hallway, "We will have that tea!"

"Just a moment, love." Mrs. Hudson replied without removing her gaze from the oven.

I stared with wide and curious eyes as the duo charged into the kitchen. The two were led by the man I immediately recognised to be Sherlock Holmes. There was no denying his commanding presence, especially when he questioned, "Who is this?" with a long finger pointed overtly in my direction.

"Evelyn Bennett." I offered with slightly raised brows. "Just moved in down the hall, actually."

"Hello." I was able to put the second voice to a face as John Watson gently pushed past from behind Sherlock, smiling widely with a hand extended in my direction. "John Watson. New upstairs neighbour." I smiled politely while he maintained a firm grip on my hand. "Apologies for the, er - spirited conversation."

"Hello," I half chuckled. "I _have _read a few of your blog entries at Mrs. Hudson's urging. Mysterious deaths, Chinese antiquities, snakes, apparently. It would be daft for one to assume that a case could be solved without its fair share of turbulence... Especially with the snakes." I smiled whilst running a hand through my hair.

"_E__specially_ turbulent when snakes very obviously haven't been involved." Sherlock offered blankly with a hand curled nonchalantly around his chin and without a glance in John's direction.

"Tea ready then?" John said through a forced, toothy grin and a clap of his hands. Mrs. Hudson didn't move from the oven door she was kneeling in front of.

"How do you take yours, Evelyn?" John asked while aggressively grabbing an extra teacup from the cupboard to add to the three that seemed to have their designated place next to the sink.

I grabbed and shook the carton of cream on the counter and smiled in appreciation as John poured me a cup and I took my seat in a random armchair in the dimly lit living room.

Mrs. Hudson assembled her scones, perfectly baked of course, on a plate and we all settled into our respective chairs (aside from Sherlock, who chose to lean against the fireplace and tower over my seat). Mrs. Hudson then mentioned something about a forgotten appointment and hurried off into the rain with a scone.

"What do you do for work then?" John inquired through a bite of berry scone and a moment of quiet following the slamming of the front door.

I looked at my hands which were cradling my warm cup, secretly working up a few moments of courage. Though it had been a handful of months since the incident, it wasn't the easiest to talk about. Grief doesn't have any sort of rigid timeline and I didn't enjoy being the pariah in whatever company I surrounded myself with. The one everyone had to walk on eggshells around. The poor, bereaved girl. No stranger to tragedy. In my current company, however, I felt comfort. I didn't feel as though I would be viewed as unrelatable or fragile. I was in the company of men that chased death and discomfort and snakes (though that was currently up for debate).

"I worked at the British Museum." At the mention of it Sherlock finally made proper eye contact with me. I kept a straight face, feigning normalcy. Trying not to immediately let on that my mum was one of the handful that died in a national tragedy at my old place of work. _Our _old place of work.

"It's been months since I've worked. I'm trying to navigate going back. It's obviously a bit grim; the thought of spending my days walking around these protected, priceless items after what happened. It all feels shallow, meaningless, if that makes any sort of sense." I shook my head as I tried to gather my scattered thoughts.

"You were there when it happened?" Sherlock asked, his eyes not leaving my face, though I didn't squirm. I felt reassured, and nodded while maintaining eye contact.

"I had been in the Great Court, beginning my first guided tour of the day when everything just, shuttered. It was the loudest sound I've ever heard but also the greatest stillness I've ever felt - like there was an electric charge in the air." My fingers twitched at the memory. It felt bizarre, ten minutes into meeting these two and I was already sharing such an intense memory. I supposed that's just what these two attracted. Walking magnets for those that have experienced the strange and unusual and disturbing. I looked back down at my milky tea as I remembered my hair standing on end. The sensation of every muscle tensing. Grabbing the random, wild eyed children next to me out of instinct as I whipped my head towards the screams that were now beginning to echo from the high ceilinged rooms to my left.

"I always thought that I'd be the type to run, to take flight if something were to go awry, but I ran towards the noise. Chaos, as you could imagine." Room 18. Greece. Parthenon exhibit. Mum's blazer. Mum's hair. Mum. The wreckage that a bomb leaves behind. I was nearly certain that Sherlock recognised the resemblance between myself and one of the victims, especially if he had studied the incident as much as I expected he would have; surely knowing the names of those that had died. There was of course a Bennett in that mix. Why he didn't choose to acknowledge it in that moment I haven't a clue. He just nodded knowingly, which when was this man ever 'unknowing' from what I'd gathered, and then took a sip of his tea. I was thankful.


	2. Chapter 2

The line of candles I had going on the fireplace mantle cast a warm, dancing glow as I sat curled in the corner of my couch with my phone and my cat, who appeared as though he was leagues ahead of me in feeling adjusted to the new place. I stretched out my legs as I held my phone to my ear and waited.

"Yes? Hello, who's calling?"

"I see I still haven't been added to your contacts. Hi, Dad. How's the French life?" I grinned and lightly picked at a velvet throw pillow on the old couch that I was now the proud-ish owner of.

"You know that when left to my own devices I am mostly incapable of operating any of my devices." He chuckled at his own 'joke' and I smiled at the welcomed sound of his voice and laughter. I pictured the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. "Beautifully sunny here, just went for a country walk and made an omelette for supper. Lunch too. Trying to perfect them. How's the new home?" I couldn't help the reactionary twinge at the word 'home.' _We'll get there, _I thought to myself.

"It's… cosy. I have an abundance of blankets and pillows now, er - a desk! That's new. Proud of setting that one up myself." I had made a couple of intensive runs to the store that afternoon to pick up a number of creature comforts and necessities. "I had tea with my neighbours. The detectives, I guess."

"The _detectives_! That's right. At least I can trust that you're safe and sound in that flat of yours. I, on the other hand, have been leaving the windows open all day as there's some quality fresh air here, but I often forget to close them over night so I may be the one we need to worry about. Mice, intruders, spiders worst of all, you know me." _Snakes_, I thought, grinning to myself. "Marvelous creatures but they do send me running."

"Oh, Dad, I have to tell you! My neighbours were telling me about this case of theirs, the one they're working on cracking right now." I sat up straighter and clutched my pillow, feeling genuine excitement over recalling the briefing they had given me over our second cup of tea. Well, that John had given me. Sherlock had busied himself in the kitchen, mostly prodding at something in the fridge whilst offering the occasional scoff at John's attempt to summarize.

"So this woman was found in her bed, with no clear or obvious cause of, um…" I didn't have any issues acknowledging the concept of death, but saying the word around my dad still resonated as uncomfortable to me. "We don't know, but she was covered in red dots and an unidentified poison was found in her bloodstream along with two puncture wounds on her ankle; a possible bite mark. John, the doctor, thinks it was a snake, but he's been calling all of the zoos in London to see if they've lost any," I nearly laughed as I said this out loud, deciding I was leaning towards taking Sherlock's side on this one. "But they've all been accounted for. I guess there's a weird family dynamic as well, which is always entertaining, but there's apparently a bizarre brother in law or fiancé that keeps loads of snakes at home, though Julia, the speckled woman, hadn't set foot in his flat and he has an alibi. It's..." I took a deep breath while smiling, "all very fascinating." I heard a garbled rustling on the other line. "Dad?"

"Yes, darling, yes! Venomous snakes and women with dots, all very enchanting material. I've just dropped a tomato in the dirty dish water but it's salvageable. I suppose I'm the only one that will have to worry about eating it."

My father didn't sound sad while voicing this truth, but it was comments like this that sent a pang through my heart more than anything that was overtly tragic or sad. I closed my eyes at the thought of him sitting alone in the countryside. His wavy dark hair and kind brown eyes with a vest for every day of the week, eating omelettes at a table with nothing but empty chairs and a breeze through the open windows to keep him company. He had repeated that this move would be a dream for him and I encouraged it. This was a time for the two of us to encourage dreams. A through and through optimist he was, and I hoped with all of my might that that trait wouldn't abandon him. Not right now.

"Getting any writing done?" I inquired with a hand on my forehead, subconsciously there to put a stopper on racing thoughts. My father was a moderately successful writer, wildly successful as far as biographers were concerned.

"Here and there," He said tentatively. "I have a trip planned for Colmar, leaving the day after tomorrow. Cobblestone streets, a canal, and Medieval buildings. Chasing inspiration and whimsy, I suppose. That should be the place to find it."

"I hope you do." I responded with the utmost sincerity.

We sat in a few moments of reflective and comfortable silence before saying our goodbyes. I tossed my phone to the other end of the couch and suddenly felt very restless, getting up and turning on the kettle for some decaffeinated tea and to take out my contacts. I had just thrown on my gold wire rimmed glasses and poured myself a cup when I began to hear distant footsteps that verged on stomping. I thought about John and Sherlock, wondering what they could be getting up to. A break in the case? Did a zoo finally report a missing snake? Is John doing a jig out of pure smugness? I was casually pacing around my living room, holding my mug and waiting for my drink to steep when I heard a door slam, followed by more stomping and hushed, urgent voices that then ceased in front of my flat. The momentary silence was then pierced by a rapid set of knocks. I opened the door confidently as there was very clearly no mystery as to who was standing behind it.

"Hi?" I said with a questioning inflection, half smiling, instantly becoming very conscious of the fact that I was wearing an incredibly oversized t-shirt and now uncomfortably short shorts. I took an all too hot sip of tea and tried to hide my grimace.

"You own a car." Sherlock stated.

"For the record," John stated while sticking up an exclamatory pointer finger and pushing past Sherlock, "this was not my idea. Had absolutely nothing to do with this. Nope." He finished with a shake of his head and made a quick _X _with his forearms before they dropped back to his sides. I stared at John with an inquisitive brow for a few moments longer before returning my attention to Sherlock.

"I did in fact make the illogical decision to own a car in this city. Well spotted." I took another sip. Though, not _entirely_ illogical as I found it therapeutic to drive and had lots of family scattered about Scotland, so I used visits to Nan and Grandad's as a means to justify it.

"_You_ clearly had no other plans this evening," Sherlock said after giving me a quick up and down glance. I laughed (mostly in indignance) and tilted my head as he continued, "and _we_ need to move past placing guilt on uninvolved reptiles. Julia Stoner was murdered. In the weeks leading up to her _murder," _Sherlock stated with a sideways glance at a tightlipped John, "she had constantly complained of feeling fatigued and ill. To gain insight into her last days, I'm going to recreate and relive Julia Stoner's final night in the exact environment that in some way -" Sherlock pushed past into my flat with his pointer fingers joined under his nose. I looked at John and shrugged, gesturing for him to enter my flat as well, "_Some_ _way_ contributed to her passing. And it's now, by no coincidence of course, that Helen Stoner-"

"Her sister." John stated. I nodded.

"Is complaining of feeling lethargic and drowsy."

"So you want a ride to the Stoners' house?" I gathered very quickly.

"Precisely."

"And you're spending the night?"

"Necessary."

"Where in England are we headed, exactly? If I agree, of course." I crossed my arms.

"Western Surrey." John offered, only making eye contact with the cat.

"Surrey…" I looked between the two of them. "All right. Let me just put on some proper trousers. Oh, and blow out those candles for me, would you? Thank you!" I loudly said as I was closing my bedroom door, making quick work of getting ready. I tucked a black sweater into some black high waisted jeans then swiftly looped an appropriately black belt around my waist. Leaving my glasses on and hair in it's slightly messy nighttime updo. I threw a toothbrush into a bag as I wasn't about to leave the boys there, only to have to make a second round trip to fetch them the next morning. I gave myself a quick look in the bathroom mirror and excitedly smiled. The thought of what we were about to do was exhilarating and I clung to the welcomed feelings of enthusiasm with all that I had in me.

I strolled back into the living room to see John sitting on one end of the couch engaged in a staring contest with my cat on the opposite end. Sherlock was standing with his hands clasped behind his back, reading the old letter from Bowie to my mum.

"What's his, uh- her? Name?" John asked.

"He doesn't have one, actually." I responded while grabbing some iced coffee from the fridge. Caffeine was now essential. "I guess I just didn't feel it was my place to give him one. Blame my angst filled, existential teenage self." I smiled. "Ready?"

We filtered out of my front door and I locked it behind us before we stepped out onto a gloomy Baker Street. It was still drizzly and now slightly foggy which felt like an ominous sendoff. With the momentum I had felt from moving and running errands all day I had also thankfully given my car a quick but thorough cleaning.

"Please tell me they know we're coming." I said, looking over my shoulder as we were now pulling onto the road and officially Surrey bound.

"We've been in contact with Helen." Sherlock said after… Snorting? Scoffing? Whatever it was, it was ultimately condescending.

"Well we _are_ going to be showing up on their doorstep at nearly midnight and I _am_ doing you a favor. Patronize me after you get the free ride." I said while glancing over at the dark haired detective. I focused on his profile as it was framed by droplets on the passenger side window lit by passing city lights and neon signs. He returned my gaze for a few moments and I smiled with raised brows to show that my comments were mostly lighthearted. One couldn't deny that he was striking in appearance.

"She's going to give us a tour of their manor and take us through her sister's daily routine where I can then pinpoint the culprit. It will be a tangible item still within the home, obviously as the sister is now somehow feeling its effects. It has to be something inconspicuous that could have been easily placed inside as there's too high a risk otherwise with the amount of adults in the home that were paranoid even before one of them died. If someone was intent on murder and had a straightforward means to do it they would have just done it the old fashioned way; but they didn't. They couldn't." Sherlock finished as he grabbed the lever on his seat and rolled it all the way back, stopping when John's knees were pressed into the back.

"Damn it, Sherlock!" John responded as he put both hands on the back of the seat. "Pull the lever again!"

"So the odds are, whatever item is behind this was placed there by someone who wouldn't have raised suspicion by entering the home?" I asked while John and Sherlock continued to toy with the seat.

"See then? Still could've been a fiancé's snake." John bitterly offered. Sherlock pushed his seat all the way back again, smirking.

I took a swig of coffee as their bickering continued, letting my eyes drift over the ever familiar streets of a very soggy London.


	3. Chapter 3

Hark! A review! Thank you so much, I honestly didn't expect anyone to read this :-) Hope you enjoy as we continue on, this one's for you!

x

Traffic dwindled as we continued westward and out of the eternal hustle and bustle that was London, winding over bridges and through smaller cities where I was now able to focus less on the roads and more on the case at hand and my current company.

"So are you originally from London?" John leaned forward and asked as we drove past a field of sheep.

"Obviously." Sherlock offered, unmoving as he continued to sit with his arms crossed and head against the window. Funny, I noted, that on paper this would sound like a position of rest for most, but he looked perpetually rigid and far from a state of ease.

"Okay," I laughed, "go on. What makes you so sure?"

"The accent is the first giveaway. Relatively pure. Distinguishable. No obvious or even slight trace of a dialect from a different hometown or county leftover from adolescent years. The car could have thrown me for a loop; car owners in London typically have just kept them after a move to the city or end up making the purchase out of previously held expectations because they grew up outside of London and were for years dependent on themselves and car travel for transportation. You are neither. You possess a natural confidence behind the wheel and the assertiveness of a practiced city driver, not to mention you have yet to enter anything into the map on your phone. You have no obvious financial struggles, which one could be dubious about, taking into account your move into a moldy basement flat, but this car, which you would have quickly and easily sold if you were pressed for money, says otherwise. One in need of some change wouldn't still have even a napkin coughed on by David Bowie in their possession, let alone an autographed and personalized letter. It's obvious from what I could see of the quality of the framed artwork you had leaning against the wall, waiting to be hung up for display, that you come from a wealthy family. Certain positions at the British Museum could afford you a comfortable lifestyle, but I doubt to such an extent at your age and assumed position within the museum hierarchy. Do I believe you had a spoon-fed upbringing and view your move to a dingy flat as _cute _and _different? _No. One that was spoiled would have this car but not have the confidence and knowhow you possess when it comes to driving it. You are just a woman throwing herself into, what would _you _call it? A 'period of self discovery' after, perhaps, the collapse of a long term relationship with the preppy blazer wearing son of an established museum donor? Seeking change and desperate to excuse yourself from one more gallery opening and champagne flute by throwing yourself into this low rent lifestyle to feel as though you are making your own way in the world without outside assistance or influence?"

My eyes were glued on the road as Sherlock made his observations. Actually, I wasn't even sure if I had blinked since he opened his mouth. He said nothing that was insulting by nature, but the tone of his voice and the assertiveness that seemed to trickle over every word made me feel as though I had been slightly attacked.

"Born and raised in London." I finally said, looking back at John. "Hampstead. My family has always been quite… comfortable, yes, but I'm not a materialistic person or driven by money, clearly. We inherited a great deal from my grandparents, but my father has made a name for himself as a writer and my mother was a director at the British Museum." I shifted slightly, now unsure that Sherlock had made the connection. "She died."

"I- I'm so sorry." John said (twice), instantly understanding the context of her passing and putting his hand on the side of the seat. "I'm sure you're tired of hearing that, so, sorry. And I've just said it again, but-"

"Thank you." I smiled, cutting him off to ease the awkwardness I now seemed to spend my life trying to avoid. "I appreciate it. Also, to your credit, I _have_ dated a blazer wearing son of a museum donor. Two, actually. Both were named Archie if that doesn't paint a picture." I smiled at Sherlock who was looking at me in silence. "That was thankfully in my teens and early twenties. Not quite my type, I've discovered."

I had a couple of serious relationships under my belt, the most recent one having ended about a year prior. Even though things very clearly hadn't worked out, I looked back on that time with warmth and fondness and gratitude, and still chatted with a few old boyfriends from time to time. Not so much the Archies, but I didn't count those as serious.

We engaged in lighter small talk and I refreshed myself on details about the case to get my bearings as we edged closer to Surrey, rolling past brick houses, farms and fields until we finally pulled in front of the manor house where Julia Stoner had lived and passed away. It was inhabited by her sister, Helen, and their stepfather, Dr. Grimesby Roylott who was a celebrity of sorts within the cosmetics industry. Our car wheels had no sooner crunched over the driveway when a one miss Helen Stoner turned on the entryway light and waved as she opened the door. The hour was getting rather late, but Helen seemed peppy despite her rumoured fatigue.

"I'm so glad you've made it!" She called, walking mostly on her toes over the dirty ground in rather posh house slippers as she continued to wave while walking towards the car. Her hair was still perfectly curled from the day.

"Thank you for allowing us to come over and scope everything out on such short notice." John smiled and said as he shook her hand.

"Anything you need."

"At this stage of the game it's of the utmost importance that we gain this kind of personal insight into the fatal catalyst of your sister's final days." Sherlock walked briskly past Helen towards the front door. "You're still feeling ill?" He asked, pivoting around to face us.

"Yeah, been feeling tired for awhile now. I almost always feel as though I've had a glass of wine or two, it's bizarre." She said, clutching a cashmere shawl around her shoulders and the heavier cardigan she already had on underneath. "I've been sleeping in until early afternoon and when I wake it's still as though I never caught a wink of sleep... And this is new." She finished, holding out her hand to display the shakes she was experiencing.

"Very well. Then we'll also need a tour of your room." Sherlock said quickly with a pointer finger in the air, pivoting back around and through the open front door. If the man were a vampire he would be miserable.

"Evelyn Bennett, lovely to meet you." I said as I shook Helen's hand and smiled as warmly as I could. I immediately internally questioning whether or not I should have engaged in a handshake, though I was nearly certain that whatever was causing her fatigue wasn't contagious, and John _was_ a doctor so I felt confident in following his lead. "Their neighbour and designated driver, apparently. They've filled me in on all of the recent happenings in your life and, though I'm rather new to all of this, I just want to assure you that you're in good hands."

She grabbed both of my arms and offered me a light smile, her eyes surrounded by smokey makeup crinkled in… desperation? Emotional, mental, physical exhaustion? "Thank you, hun."

Helen and I made our way inside the home. My eyes were immediately drawn up the portrait and sconce filled walls toward the incredibly high ceiling that was lined with dark beams and adorned with an elaborate light fixture. I let my gaze fall and made eye contact with a rather austere looking oil painting of a middle aged blond gentleman. I looked down at the large, maroon patterned rug I was standing on, a barrier between my shoes and the richly dark hardwood floor that was charmingly uneven due to the home's old age. I was shaken from my visual exploration when Helen loudly closed and locked the heavy wooden door behind her, accompanied with a beep from their assumedly heavy-duty security system.

"Should I take my shoes off?" I inquired, noticing an absence of them by the door but not wanting to take any missteps in their home. Literally.

"No, no. We have cleaners." She offered with a wave, sauntering over to join John and Sherlock who were already in the sitting room.

"All right then." I mouthed to myself.

"Lovely place you've got here." John observed with his hands on his sides as Sherlock had his head inside the grand fireplace, peering up the chimney.

"It is, isn't it. It's belonged to my step-father's family for generations."

"Is he in?" Sherlock asked, his voice echoing from inside the fireplace.

"Yes, somewhere, though he does normally retire to bed around nine or ten. Beauty sleep and all that."

"All right, let's see your room." Sherlock said briskly, brushing his hands together after ducking out of the fireplace.

"Do- do you want a tour of the house?"

"I suppose if you feel so inclined, though there's nothing here I particularly need to see. Your couch cushions look as though they've been occupied once within the last month."

"Well a tour would be useful, wouldn't it?" John said, trying and failing to hide his annoyance that stemmed from Sherlock's apparent flippancy. "I mean we drove all this way and we're _here._"

"Aside from your rooms, where did you and Julia you spend the majority of your time?" I asserted.

"We have a less formal sitting room, I would say we both spent a few hours there every evening if we hadn't gone out. We both enjoyed baking so the kitchen saw its fair share of use. We also have a study, though she used that more than I do."

I tilted my head in thought, realizing that a few hours spent in an odd room here and there wouldn't be enough to poison its occupants that weren't there consistently in the first place. If one had been targeting both sisters they obviously would have a clear answer as to where they needed to place the objects that would eventually prove fatal.

"Has your stepfather complained of feeling poorly? Even just slight fatigue?" John wondered.

Helen flipped her stiff, product filled hair behind her shoulder in thought as she clicked her tongue once. "Not really. Right after Julia passed away, but I think he was just sad. Like, he was really upset, obviously. I don't see him that much now, he's usually in his study or sleeping or at meetings. He'll walk the grounds sometimes."

Why would one target the daughters of a loaded cosmetics big shot without a threat or demand, and then not target the person that lay claim to that huge fortune? If this weren't a money driven crime, who could these poor women have mutually enraged? I caught Sherlock's eye and we exchanged slightly confused glances.

We followed Helen and made our way down a dark, narrow, high ceilinged hallway filled with doors. This would have been my childhood dream; endless doors, "secret" passageways used by maids and butlers, endless amounts of nooks and crannies to be explored. Forget childhood, this would thrill me at any age.

"Here's the kitchen." Helen said, opening a door to a room with incredible wooden built ins, endless counter space, copper pots and pans hanging in abundance under impressive windows.

"Have you done much baking recently?" I asked, recalling my lack of enthusiasm towards typically mundane undertakings such as cooking for myself in the weeks following the bombing.

"No, I've mostly just been eating." She said sheepishly though I gave her a reassuring nod.

I took one more look around as Sherlock tended to a large vase of flowers near the window, carefully rubbing his fingers over petals and sniffing whatever remained on his fingers after. His eyes showed no glimmer of excitement so I knew there was nothing of note in the colourful flora.

John was busying himself in the fridge which was surprisingly barren of ingredients.

"Is there anything in here that you eat everyday? Milk with your cereal, that raspberry jam on your toast, a morning coffee, perhaps?" John asked while peering into the bag of grounds next to the fridge.

"Usually I just eat out or get take away. I've been going out for coffee every afternoon just to get out of this house." I could sense the fear behind her eyes. Just to be stuck in the huge, empty manor where your sister suspiciously died; a place so familiar to you but now so strange and uncanny.

"Let's go to your room?" I offered. She responded with a series of small rapid nods, as though she was agreeing but also clearing her mind of its previous thoughts.

We made our way down the same door filled hallway, the temptation to turn every knob and give a peek at what lay on the other side was very strong. We walked past the formal sitting room and turned up a set of sturdy and wooden stairs, though they still creaked ominously underneath our foot falls. We stopped in front of the first door on the right.

"This is mine." She opened the door to an expansive but cosy room. Her clothing and makeup style tended towards glamorous so I was surprised by the lack of "glam" in her room. It had elements of luxury of course, like a beautiful claw foot tub that I could see through the opened door of the room's connected bathroom. Helen also had a canopy bed draped with dark sheets that folded and caught the dim light in a way that made them look like a painting. I didn't see clothing or a substantial dresser so I assumed we were standing not too far from a gaudy walk in closet, or perhaps a designated closet _room _as a teenage friend of mine had had.

"Could you walk us through the parts of the day that you spend in here?" John asked.

"Yeah, er, I wake up, and properly get out of bed around eleven or noon these days." We all walked over to the bed where she pulled back some of the drapery and patted her pillows that looked as though they'd feel like clouds. "Then I'll turn on the telly to wake myself up more. Then… I always do my makeup. Here." We walked over to a vanity that was filled with every product imaginable. Sherlock opened vanity drawers that were also filled with trays upon trays of products. If my stepfather were a big wig in the cosmetics industry I know I'd be swimming in makeup and creams and toiletries as well.

"Tell me what you use everyday." Sherlock demanded.

"It changes everyday, really. Depending on where I'm going, who I'm seeing."

"You mentioned going out for coffee every afternoon. Pretend you're getting ready for coffee." Sherlock resisted (but mostly failed) the impulse to roll his eyes.

"I would probably start with this." She blindly reached behind rows of tubes and bottles and of course pulled out exactly what she was looking for. "Moisturizer. Eye cream. This sunscreen. Moisturizer with sunscreen. Concealer, here, foundation…" She deftly pulled out every product mentioned, handing them to John and Sherlock who quickly had near armfuls of product.

"You use these with _consistency_?" John prodded.

"Hm, I mean, like I said it changes. I like to switch out products so my skin doesn't get used to them. Some people think it's important to let your skin get used to certain products, but I think switching up your daily routine makes all products more effective."

"Your sister, was she into beauty products as well?" I asked.

"Not as much as I am. She didn't wear makeup everyday, but obviously we get so many free products and she'd use most of them."

"All right. Bathroom." Sherlock quickly said. Dropping his share of products into John's arms.

"Does… does he have to use it? Or-" Helen asked with a confused glance in my direction. I snorted.

I followed him, hearing John muttering under his breath after a few products fell on the floor, and stood next to the claw foot tub. My jaw dropped. Once inside, the bathroom was nearly as big as her bedroom. Why one would need this much space to relieve and clean themselves, unless space was needed for a whole football team to assist, I will never know. We were of course greeted again with an abundance of products lining the sink(s), on the table next to the tub, filling the porcelain racks on the wall, inhabiting an apparent gold wire bar cart.

Sherlock put both pointer fingers to his lips and spun around slowing, taking a visual sweep of the room.

"Take us to Julia's room."

I looked at him with a slightly furrowed brow. "That's it?"

"Julia is the deceased and our main focus. Our greatest asset in discovering the culprit and their preferred tool is in her room. We will find 'it' in there, and then we will find it in here_._"

I nodded.

"Follow me then. Her room is at the end of the hallway."

I slightly braced myself, feeling more uncomfortable about entering her room than I felt about hearing the details of her death. Death is a part of life and that's the one thing we all have in common, but... life. The details of it. Being surrounded by what made up a great deal of someone's existence; their books, their bobby pins on the bedside table, the toothbrush next to the sink, the pictures and artwork they chose to hang on the wall and admired everyday. It was eery.

"I haven't really gone in here since. I… don't really want to. A bit sad, you know?" Helen said, opening the door for us but averting her eyes.

"We understand." John said.

We thanked her for her hospitality and for showing us around when she bid us "goodnight" and closed the door.

Julia's room felt more lived in than her sister's. The room was filled with personal touches, little trophies from horse riding days in a display cabinet, pictures of her and her fiancé, a clarinet on a stand in the corner. She had the same vanity as Helen, but it was filled with less products and more character. I sighed quietly as I stood in front of a framed portrait on the wall. I felt a presence to my left and looked over to see John. Searching my face to make sure that I was all right. I half smiled.

"Hanging in there?" He asked.

"I think so. This -" I gestured to the room. "This is the worst part so far, but I'm okay. Ready to find out who's behind all of this."

"You're not alone. If at any point tonight, or whenever, you feel as though you need someone to talk to, I'm here." He said earnestly. "If you feel comfortable, I know I'm just an acquaintance at this point, but we've made it our business to listen. I mean, _I_ have. _I_ listen." John half smiled with a glance towards the bathroom where Sherlock was sitting on the floor.

"Thanks, John."

I joined Sherlock in the bathroom. He was standing, staring at himself in the mirror with his hands on either side of the sink. I joined him in standing in front of the mirror, staring at his reflection as well.

"It has to be something in here." Sherlock said, returning my gaze.

"So you take everything to Bart's and test it if you have to."

He turned around and kneeled in front of the tub, gazing over every product lining its side. He seemed particularly drawn to a nearly empty bottle of mint green bubble bath liquid, picking it up and turning it over delicately in his hands. The bathroom lights were warm toned and dim so he whipped out his phone and turned on the flashlight, holding it close to the sides of the tub.

"Green residue." He said confidently, setting the bottle on the floor. "This was in Helen's bathroom as well, though pink and not nearly as empty. However, with her tendency to switch product routines it would take her much longer to experience the fatal end result of whatever it was she was so unlucky to be using."

I stepped closer, intimidated by what this green liquid could potentially be capable of. John stuck his head through the door.

"Same after sun lotion as Helen." He stuck his hand in and shook a bottle.

"Yes, same brand of toothpaste, same cleanser, same glass cleaner on the window sill…" Sherlock replied, pointing around the room and sounding slightly exasperated. "How often do you think Helen has been using her after sun lotion this month with all of the rain we've had. Not enough to inspire the shakes, surely."

"Then toothpaste, bubble bath…" I walked over to the vanity that John had been perusing. "This moisturizer looks much loved." I offered, holding a luxuriously packaged bottle that was nearly empty, the gold and baby blue label appearing faded in places.

John squinted. "I definitely don't remember seeing that in Helen's room."

"The killer could have used the same poison in any toiletry, so perhaps the guilty products could differ between the two women. I don't particularly think this is the occasion for brand loyalty." I replied and noticed Sherlock grin. "Though I'm unfortunately not well versed in poisons, my gut tells me a more liquid product would be a better means to deliver whatever it is they were trying to… deliver. I know I'd be more inclined to mix it in with that bubble bath as opposed to smushing it around in a toothpaste tube."

"Obviously best to bring a handful of items back to Bart's as opposed to one. No harm in that." John shrugged.

"'Best'? Only bringing one item back would mean that we had confidence." Sherlock said plainly.

"Is that it then? Are we heading back?" I asked.

"No. We all need to stay overnight. As much as I'm confident the answer lies in one of those bottles, I can't claim that with one hundred percent certainty. I need to experience other variables. The sheets, the air pumping through these vents, the obviously frequently used perfume next to the mirror, these candles that she almost managed to burn down all the way. We need the full picture."

"Hm, so if one of us starts to feel poorly then we'll know we're on to something?" John offered with an eye roll.

Sherlock picked up the perfume bottle and gave John a spritz. "That would be helpful."


	4. Chapter 4

I've officially self quarantined so expect an abundance of updates. I hope you're doing well and have been staying home with a good book and a binge-worthy series. I just started watching True Blood _and. now. I. can't. stop._

x

"Nope, nope, _nope_. I'm sleeping on the floor. End of story." John insisted, looking under the bed and pulling open drawers until he found an extra blanket in a wooden trunk. He threw it on the floor at the far end of the room under the windows and grabbed a decorative pillow off of the bed, stubbornly lying down, although I knew he probably wouldn't be sleeping anytime soon.

I hadn't really given the sleeping situation much thought until we were presented with it. I was tired and had no qualms when it came to sharing the bed with either of them. It was a king bed and, quite frankly, I didn't much feel like walking down the hall to wake a fatigued and sleep deprived Helen to inquire about different arrangements. If John refused to share a bed with Sherlock then so be it.

"Well, I have no issues." I said, lying down, crossing my feet and laying claim to the right side of the large and very inviting bed.

"Hold on, before you get too comfortable…" Sherlock trailed off whilst walking towards the dresser. He opened a few drawers before stumbling across what he was apparently looking for. He pulled out a floral night dress and tossed it to me.

"Now I draw the line." I half laughed incredulously. "You want me to wear this poor woman's night dress?"

"It's just a piece of cloth. It's not like she died in it."

"If it's just a piece of cloth then _you_ wear it."

"That's your solution? Really? Me in a size small dress?"

I looked down at the fabric. Feeling uneasy at the thought of Julia Stoner wearing these pyjamas in this very bed (well, the bed had been replaced after she died in it, but still) after brushing her teeth and taking a relaxing bubble bath just a few meters away… But he was right. Something could have been in the detergent or fabric softener, the list went on in my head. It would, of course, be on the off chance, but the word "chance" is hopeful in nature. We weren't going to die after spending just one evening in Julia's life, Helen was proof of that. If I awoke with some nausea, or perhaps a few hives, then that would be a point in the right direction, wouldn't it?

"All right, I'll do it, but please don't ask me to take a bath." I walked briskly into the bathroom after grabbing my toothbrush and paste from my satchel and quickly closed the door. I disrobed and threw on the modest dress; light green and covered in dainty white flowers with a line of three buttons below the collar. It fell above my knees and had short sleeves with a lettuce trim. It was comfortable and reminded me of something I would have worn to slumber parties in my youth (there was always the unspoken game that was internally comparing everyone's pyjamas).

I turned around to face myself in Julia's mirror and my breath caught slightly at the heaviness of the situation. I thought back to the phone call I had with my father earlier in the evening and the excitement I felt towards the case; but it _wasn't_ just a case. This was someone's life, rich in thoughts and memories and experiences and we were now immersed in an overwhelming and unsettling portion of it. I wasn't turned off from the idea of tagging along for more of these adventures if I were asked. In fact, I felt a burning desire and drive to make right for those that had died unfairly and tragically at the hands of others.

I swiped a lone tear from my cheek that I hadn't realised had been there. After I brushed my teeth I let my hair down, feeling more secure with the weight of the thick waves falling down my arms and back. I opened the door quietly in case John had actually fallen asleep within those few minutes.

"Do you want me to turn this light off?" I gestured to a lamp and quietly asked Sherlock, who was sitting upright in the bed with his legs crossed and fingers laced together across his stomach. The fact that his shoes were off was really the only inherently comfortable looking thing about him.

"I suppose, unless you are unwarrantedly afraid and feel the need to leave it-"

"Turn it off." John groaned.

I shot an amused smile at Sherlock and flipped the switch. We had made sure to light all of the candles in the room that Julia had out and appeared to use regularly. Thankfully the room was large and there was a decent amount of ventilation, otherwise we all certainly would have awoken the next morning sporting scent-induced headaches. Their constant flickering was a comfort to me as it always had been, and though I wouldn't admit this, I was thankful to not be enveloped by darkness in this particular room. I felt weird about getting under the sheets and disturbing the bed more than I would by just lying on top of everything. The sheets were luxurious and plush and the pillows, similar to Helen's, felt divine. I stretched my legs out and lightly clasped my hands over my abdomen. I stared out the windows on the far wall, then turned my attention to the beam lined ceiling above me. I didn't even remember closing my eyes before drifting off to sleep.

x

I slowly became aware of my body as I woke up. I was on my side, knees pointing towards the door, my hand feeling heavy on my skin as I had placed it on my neck at some point in the night. I sat up in confusion, staring out of the still dark windows at the foggy night as rain pelted the windows. I rubbed my eyes before lying back down on my side to go back to sleep when I saw it. My body tensed, my chest became tight as my breath caught in my throat and my mind abandoned any sense of drowsiness. Under the crack in the door next to my side of the bed I could see two shadows, almost as if someone was just standing on the other side in the dimly lit hallway.

I slowly turned to look at Sherlock who was seemingly fast asleep on his back. It felt a bit strange to see someone like him in this vulnerable state. I knew I shouldn't be alone and the only witness in trying to unpack what was happening in the hallway. I then heard quiet footsteps and saw that the shadow had moved, though the footsteps grew softer then louder and closer, as though whomever was out there was pacing.

I couldn't reach Sherlock from across the king bed so I got on my knees and lightly crawled over to his silhouette, dimly lit by the glow of candles lined up on a desk behind him. I put a gentle hand on his arm so he, fingers crossed, wouldn't startle awake. His eyes slowly opened and he immediately adopted a gaze of obvious irritation, like he was rolling his eyes without physically doing so. He began to open his mouth to say something sarcastic I'm sure when I boldly but lightly put a hand over his mouth. I shook my head and put a finger to my lips, pointing towards the door. He could instantly sense my confusion and see the concern and slight excitement in my wide eyes. He wrapped his long fingers around my wrist and slowly removed my hand as we both leaned forward to see that the shadow had returned for a second before leaving again.

Summoning some courage while listening to John snore, I put my bare feet on the large rug beneath the bed, praying the hardwood floors underneath wouldn't creak. I tiptoed to the door, turning to Sherlock for encouragement as we shared a few seconds of eye contact. I motioned to the knob and then to the crack under the door and shrugged, silently asking him _do I look underneath, or do I whip this sucker open?_ He pointed down. I got on my hands and knees and then with the most tenderness I could muster, crawled towards the door, putting my head to the ground and my eye at level with the floor so I could glimpse who was on the other side. I was greeted by a squinting, pale coloured eye returning my gaze.

I gasped and fell backwards before hearing rapid footsteps, so I scrambled up and opened the door, stepping into the hallway only to hear a door shut and faintly but clearly heard the sound of someone rapidly descending stairs.

"Damn." I muttered as Sherlock joined me in the doorway, both of us deciding to run down the hallway on the same breath. Sherlock continued on while I put an ear to Helen's door, only to hear her breathing deeply in her much needed state of rest. I jogged on to join Sherlock around the corner where it had sounded as though he had opened and closed a door before finding the one with a staircase.

Sherlock started running to the bottom of the narrow, winding steps whereas I made a point to open each door that lined them. With every corner it seemed there was another door in the wall; closet, hallway, cleaning supply closet, cobweb filled cupboard, another hallway. I assumed I was steps away from the basement at this point. I turned around and ran up the steps, taking the only route I knew to get to the main door. I ran down the grand staircase and put my hand on the doorknob before remembering the beep of the security system hours earlier. I hustled over to the main windows and got up close, peering outside with my hands around the sides of my face. Nothing. Whoever it was was still in the house and most definitely knew their way around it.

"Blast." Sherlock snarled causing me to jump, not expecting him, or anyone, to walk out from the first floor hallway.

"I saw an eye when I kneeled down," I said, looking back out the window towards the driveway, "peering back at me. It was light blue or grey, light enough to where it wasn't fully lost in the dim lighting. It was a man, but I couldn't make out an age. I didn't see many wrinkles, so he was most likely younger… Or he's just a bloke that lives in the basement here and doesn't get much sun which honestly wouldn't surprise me in this damn house." I finished, sitting frustratedly down on the couch and pressing my palms over my eyes. I felt slightly pleased that I was messing with the all too pristine cushions that Sherlock had commented on earlier.

I felt Sherlock take a seat at the other end of the couch. I removed one palm from my eye to give him a sideways glance. I didn't expect him to sit still after the pursuit when whoever it was was still very clearly somewhere in the house. I raised my eyebrow when I saw that he was smiling to himself.

"What?" I questioned.

"'What'? Isn't it obvious? We know of two people currently inhabiting this house. One of which we met-"

"And is asleep in her bedroom."

"And one of which we _will _meet tomorrow morning. The one that was outside our door. There's no way the ego of a cosmetics industry CEO would let this lie. He'll be wanting to win us over before we go, I'm just sorry we couldn't catch him now to see if he had anything incriminating on hand."

Turning it over in my head, there was little doubt in my mind that Dr. Roylott was the one that had stood outside.

"How certain are you that his presence in the hallway was suspicious or malicious? Could he just be a man in grief, pacing in front of his dead step-daughter's door out of concern or routine comfort?"

Sherlock stared at me, legs crossed with one arm on the back of the couch and the other on the arm of the couch.

"You know grief." He observed.

"Yes, I know grief."

A few moments of surprisingly comfortable silence followed.

"I have to admit, I was a bit surprised that you didn't make the connection between me and the bombing. I was confident you would have."

"Of course I did." He shrugged with his hand.

"Of course you did?" I kicked one of my legs underneath me so I could sit up straighter. "Why didn't you let on?"

For a couple of seconds it almost didn't seem like he had an answer. "I knew you would bring it up, and I'm," he stared at the ceiling as if trying to find the right word, "_learning _to let people breathe… And like I said, I was confident that you would open up eventually. If I bombarded you with questions and details and names, would that have encouraged answers and particulars from you? Doubtful. In fact I imagined you would have stopped speaking with me all together."

"Your observation in the car was purposefully wrong. A probe."

"Obviously." He scoffed.

Hurt flashed across my eyes at his callousness before I stared at him emotionlessly for a few seconds, then I wordlessly stood up with the intention of heading back to the room. Or the kitchen. One of the two. I felt the colour rise to my cheeks because of his condescension and manipulation.

"Wait, wait." He grabbed my wrist for the second time that night, though out of pettiness I refused to turn around, feeling like a child with no help from the pyjamas I was sporting. "I'm… sorry." The way he said it made the word seem foreign to Sherlock and I felt slightly sorry for _him_.

"I appreciate the sentiment."

"You do?"

"Sure." I shook his hand from my arm. "I mean, of course. You said that you're learning, not that you've learned. That's apparent. At least you're self aware in that regard." I wasn't angry, I just felt slightly violated and it obviously showed.

"It very clearly wasn't my intention to cause you turmoil." He said flippantly.

"My mother was murdered by someone that planted a bomb rooms away from where I was standing. It killed children, parents, grandparents." I finally turned around. "_You _haven't caused me turmoil."

He shifted uncomfortably.

"You've undoubtedly done research. What do you know?" I asked, softening my tone.

Sherlock dramatically fell back on the couch again.

"Virtually nothing." He offered with a grimace of frustration. "I've combed over articles, cctv footage of the building's exterior, eyewitness accounts, but nothing."

I nodded. That was what I had anticipated, unfortunately.

"I'm convinced it was a coworker." I said quietly. "Not fully, of course. I can't be sure. They would have to know the building well and perhaps possessed after hours access. They knew how to enter and leave the museum unseen, aware of all the weak points that aren't under the surveillance of cctv. There's a blip in the building's internal security footage from the evening prior." Sherlock put a hand to his chin in interest, obviously that was an insight that he would have been hard pressed to get as an outsider, as I was sure the museum wanted to keep that blip under wraps. "I don't think someone was working alone. To plot an attack of that magnitude and kill dozens, wouldn't that individual want the - the disgusting glory? To have their picture plastered across news channels, for everyone to know their name? Isn't that the 'why'? I'm just sitting here, constantly waiting for another attack to happen. Trying to think of what the endgame is here, I… I just don't know."

It felt good to finally get things off of my chest. Up until now I didn't really have a conversational outlet for this. I had talked with coworkers after everything happened but their tone was always that of fear and it was gossipy in nature. It didn't feel productive, which was what I craved.

We both startled when we heard a distant door close. I groaned. No more doors. Sherlock immediately followed the sound, heading up the stairs to the hallway containing the bedrooms. I followed less enthusiastically. He was standing in the middle of the hallway, listening carefully when John whipped open the bedroom door.

"You had left this open." John tiredly griped, then exchanged a curious glance with Sherlock and I when he noticed we were both standing there.

"We'll fill you in tomorrow morning, so I suppose you just have to wait a couple of hours." I brushed past them and into the bedroom, now realising how utterly exhausted I was.

"Fine by me." John said drowsily.

"Goodnight." I stated to the room, before letting my head fall back into the pillow.

x

I woke up the next morning feeling surprisingly refreshed. I lightly stretched every limb before sitting up and opening my eyes to see neither Sherlock or John in the room. The pile of toiletries they were going to test at Bart's were also gone. I glanced at the clock and realised it was only quarter after seven in the morning.

"What the…"

I ran into the bathroom and threw on my day clothes again after checking my body for a stray hive or two. Nothing to see there. I folded the night dress as carefully as I could and decided to just put it back in the dresser. I ran down the steps, quickly surveying the sitting room before walking to the kitchen. Maybe they had settled down for a quick cup of coffee? I whipped open the door confidently and then took an apologetic step back, surprised to see a man that I had yet to make the acquaintance of seated at the breakfast nook built in under a set of windows. He was wearing a plush forest green robe and had on striped pyjamas adorned with an embroidered 'R' that peeked out from behind the robe.

"I-I'm terribly sorry for bursting in. I thought my friends were here." I explained. "I'm hoping Helen filled you in on everything?"

"She had mentioned something in a text." The man replied calmly, setting down the paper that he had been reading. "Have a seat, have a seat. Would you like a cup of coffee? I'd feel rude drinking mine in front of you." He stood up and smiled, walking over to their extensive coffee bar.

"Thank you. That looks as though it would make a great latte."

"You got it."

I was unable to take my eyes off of him as I walk over to take my place on the cushioned bench encircling the dark, round wooden table. There was something about his presence that was overwhelming. He exuded power. I felt like I was under his control, not wanting to make any sort of incorrect move. I watched closely as he pressed buttons and grabbed a tall mug on the counter nearby.

"You've had a pleasant stay?" He turned to me and asked, the machine starting to make whirring noises.

"Yes, I've never been anywhere quite like this. I hope we haven't been of any disturbance to your routine?" I inquired, raising a brow as his light grey eyes bore into mine.

"No, no, but I'm afraid I was of some disturbance to yours. I find it quite hard to sleep at night, you know. I was taking one of my nightly strolls of the property when I was overcome with a sense of dread and loss, as has become the norm for me these days. I didn't mean to startle you by taking comfort near Julia's room."

"No need to apologise."

"I ran, as I'd rather not be seen in such a state." He gave a charming smile as he walked over with my mug, steam rolling invitingly off the top of its contents. I realised that I thought the man outside our door had been younger because of his skin- smooth and deeply tanned. Not reflective of an older gentleman with more years under his belt, though that made total sense with his line of work and work he'd undoubtedly had done.

"I understand." I put on my nicest smile, though I still felt skeptical as opposed to reassured. He was talking of these emotions too flatly for me to be convinced that that's what he had been experiencing.

"Please tell me, did you find anything of interest in Julia's room?" The skin around his eyes finally crinkled with concern, though I was unsure if I should fill him in just yet.

"Nothing concrete, I'm afraid. I wish I had better news. I can imagine how stressful all of this has been for your family, to put it mildly." I made it my mission to not avert my gaze from his.

"Mm. That really is too bad." He and I both took sips from our drinks, still not breaking eye contact. "You never told me your name."

"Evelyn."

He waited until I said my last name.

"…Bennett."

"Lovely." He tilted his head, covered with perfectly slicked back waves.

"Have you returned to work?" I questioned.

"Here and there. It's a running joke that they'll never see me retire. At this point I've afforded the luxury of not being needed often. After decades of establishing integrity, demanding quality, and assembling a top notch creative team," He spread his arms in a gesture. "What more is needed from me? Foresight will get one very far. You're familiar with my company, yes?" He made no point of hiding it as he surveyed my face and hair.

"Yes, though I've yet to try any of your products."

"Pity, as I was about to say that I hoped this," he waved his perfectly manicured fingers in front of my face, "was a result of my indirect handiwork. I would have been proud."

I tried to rid my face of any expression, feeling uncomfortable and also annoyed that my latte was too hot to just chug. I finally heard a door close outside the room, hoping and praying that it was Sherlock and John.

"Shall we invite your friends to join us?" Dr. Roylott asked, his hands together as if in a gesture of prayer as he quickly walked to the door. His robe catching the air behind him.

"Hello!" He called, "Why don't you boys come in?"

"I suppose we have a few minutes before we need to head out." I heard Sherlock respond, his voice getting closer.

"Have a seat, please. Coffee, coffee, coffee. Anyone? I think I'll have another cup."

"Yeah, thanks." John said, joining me at the table and smiling. "Good morning."

"Sure. Where were you two?" I whispered, under the noise of the coffee maker.

"Had to, er, bag everything up and put it in the car." John responded quietly, then coughed and gave a thumbs up to Dr. Roylott who held up the mug he was about to fill. I felt a bit daft for not realising the absence of my car keys. "Then Sherlock wanted to walk the grounds a bit, so we did, and he filled me in on what happened last night."

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes, is it?" The doctor asked. "Why don't you have a cup, no need to leave us so soon."

"I'm feeling energised enough as is."

Sherlock leaned against the wall next to John, choosing not to sit down.

"Here you are." Roylott looked at John, dragging out the word "are" expectantly_._

"Oh, Watson. John Watson." John nodded.

"I was just catching up with your lovely friend here," the doctor gestured at me, "a pity to hear that nothing of note was found during your stay."

"Yes, quite. Terribly sorry about that." Sherlock stated brusquely.

"Tell me, have you personally been feeling any signs of fatigue? Aches and pains that are out of the norm, perhaps?" John inquired.

Roylott laughed, "I have no normal aches and pains and that still stands, John. Nothing new that's cropped up within the last month either. Though, if I could take poor Helen and Julia's places, I would in a heartbeat." He said, putting a hand with a ring bearing pinky finger over his heart. I cleared my throat lightly and took my last sip.

"Another one?" He quickly asked, grabbing my cup and flashing a perfect smile.

"No, no thank you. That was all I needed to get us back to London."

"Before you go, Evelyn, you mentioned being virgin to my line of products-"

I heard John take a comically large gulp next to me before setting his mug down and staring at the table.

"And I'd feel horrible if you were to leave this visit entirely empty handed after all of your hard work. Just a moment, you three. Excuse me." He smiled before leaving the room.

We waited until his steps faded to open our mouths.

"What in the hell was all of that?" John declared.

"Keys. _Please_. Whoever has them." I held my hand out and tried but failed to resist bursting out laughing, which was a habit of mine when I was uncomfortable. John pulled them out of his trouser pocket and handed them to me.

"I don't understand. I do _not _understand." John ran a hand through his hair.

"I understand that he's entirely up to something." I stated, successfully holding back the laughs this time.

"This is disturbingly obvious." Sherlock echoed.

"The sooner we get to Bart's the better." John said from behind his mug, making a point to down the rest of his coffee as quickly as possible. "You think this is safe, right?" He asked, wiping his mouth and staring at a few stray grounds left in the bottom of his cup.

I snorted slightly, in near disbelief of the situation. We heard a distant door slam and made ourselves seem as though we hadn't spoken since he'd left.

"Here we are." He bursted through the door with a gift bag filled to the brim with products. "Everything a young woman could ever need, right here. Even included some extra items for the man in your life. Lucky devil." He winked and grinned.

It was my turn to stare wide eyed at the table though I quickly recovered. "Er, if I can wrangle one I'll be sure to give them to him. Thanks." I forced a smile.

"Speaking of wrangling, we have an appointment to make early this afternoon that was _very_ difficult to secure. Time is of the essence for us." Sherlock lied.

"Ah, yes, the ever moving time. You're not wrong." Roylott shrugged. "Let me see you all to the door."

We filtered out of the kitchen and followed him outside, ready to get the hell out of there.

"Take care! Thank you!" He waved from the front step as we returned his waves and got into the car. I turned the keys in the ignition and waved once more before pulling out of the driveway.

"God, I can't wait to shower," I shuddered, "and not with that." I glanced at the gift bag next to John in the backseat.

"Why do I feel the need to take this to Bart's as well?" John shook his head and pushed the bag further towards the other seat.

"Thankfully you were here to bring out his inner creep." Sherlock offered.

"I think he's more of an outer creep, Sherlock."

"So glad I could be of any assistance." I said while turning on the windshield wipers as we were once again met by the now ever familiar rain.


	5. Chapter 5

So this particular case gets wrapped up here, yes, but this is just the beginning. We have plenty more to cover in this story, don't you worry. Hope you're doing well!

Question of the day: Have any of you been to the Sherlock Holmes Museum? I've walked by it loads but I haven't gone inside. When I stayed in London last autumn I rented a little Airbnb off of Baker Street and I just loved it so much. Like. Definitely cried about it once or twice haha.

x

Once back in London we all stopped at Baker Street to shower and freshen up before I promised to drop Sherlock and John off at Bart's to conduct their testing. I wanted to grocery shop and spend time with my cat before picking them up later.

"Hey, you." I said, opening the door and smiling at the fluffy grey feline that blinked at me from the couch. I walked over to join him and gave him a nice scratch behind his ears. It didn't take me long to throw my clothes in the wash and jump in the shower, spending a few extra minutes in the comfort of the steam and hot water.

I decided to throw on a favourite summer dress of mine as the humidity had risen during the morning, the July sun finally coming out to play after a solid week of rain. The dress was a v neck with a mostly open back and shorter, comfortably flowy sleeves. It was fitted towards the top but with a loose skirt that stopped above my knees; perfect for the city heat that sometimes verged on unrelenting. Muggy weather in cities always struck me as more uncomfortable than hot weather in the country. I ran my hands over my stomach to smooth the black fabric. I attempted but failed to dry my hair, letting it twist and curl as it wanted to. I decided to slap on some makeup as I supposed both Sherlock and John needed to use the shower and figured I had extra time. I kept it simple, throwing on a light layer of foundation and blush to add some much needed life to my face. I added a thin line of eyeliner and a layer of mascara, finishing everything off by running a sheer but rosy gloss over my lips. It wasn't much, but I finally felt refreshed and mostly cleansed of the previous night.

I waited in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with the cat at my feet as I ate one of Mrs. Hudson's leftover scones for an energy boost. Sitting and drinking tea with Sherlock and John in their flat just yesterday felt like weeks ago. My phone vibrated, a message flashing across the screen from a number that wasn't in my contacts.

_One minute._

After I'd barely finished reading the text I heard a distant door close and shoes quickly descending the steps, followed by a rapid set of knocks at my door. I shook my head, assuming Sherlock had managed to snag my number while I was sleeping.

"You know, there's hardly any point in sending a one minute warning, especially if you're then going to cut that minute in half." I said as I opened the door and slipped on a pair of black flats.

"I didn't see why you would have needed any more time than what you were allotted."

"Then you're lucky I'm content with damp hair." I responded with a hair elastic in my teeth, attempting to gather the heavy waves into a ponytail.

"There's something different about you." Sherlock said with squinted eyes.

"Mm, thanks?"

"Not inherently a compliment." He clarified.

"Pity."

"You look healthy, I mean."

I raised my brows. After closing the door and eliminating the illusion of space that the view into my flat provided, we were made aware of our close proximity to each other on my door mat.

"I'd hope so." I said, assuming this was the most "flattery" I could expect from an individual like Sherlock Holmes. I took a few steps backwards and looked up the stairs to see John finally heading down, looking a bit disgruntled with still wet hair and a clear plastic bag filled with our suspicious toiletries.

"Use any of my gifts?" I jested.

"Ha ha." John said sarcastically. "I'm surprised I'm still breathing after that coffee scare this morning."

We filed into my car, Sherlock calling shotgun yet again and pointing me in the direction of Barts.

"You'll keep me updated as soon as you find anything out, yes?" Curiosity was getting the better of me with the excitement of finding out if, more confidently _which_, item was responsible for Julia Stoner's death and Helen Stoner's decline in health.

"If you insist." Sherlock offered plainly.

"I didn't spend the evening in a dead woman's night dress and run after Grimesby Roylott at three in the morning out of pure indifference."

"Is there any doubt in anyone's mind that he isn't guilty? Or is he just an innocent weasel?" John questioned flatly from behind us.

Even though Roylott did radiate peculiar energy, I couldn't bring myself to be certain that he was responsible.

"I almost feel that if he _were_ guilty he would have done more to win our favour this morning." I shrugged.

I glanced at Sherlock for a few moments as he rubbed his forefinger and thumb together, staring at the buildings that passed by his window. I was endlessly curious as to what was going on inside his mind. It then occurred to me that I'd nearly forgotten about the red specks covering Julia's body and the apparent snake bite as well. We all seemed to have disregarded those details within the last day.

"What of the red dots and the bite?"

"The bite is a red herring, not worth our time." Sherlock said, waving his hand. "As for the dots, a side effect of a particular poison we've yet to acquaint ourselves with."

I nodded quietly. It was a relatively short drive to Bart's, only a little over ten minutes, so I bid them farewell, reminded John to keep me updated as he was more reliable, and made my way back to Baker Street. On the way I stopped at one of the more decently sized Tesco Metros on Regent Street, always busy with shoppers and a pain to drive around, but it was a beautiful area. I never grew tired of London, even the most touristy bits; in fact, I liked finding excuses to let myself venture into most of them.

I found parking after a few minutes and walked towards the shop, admiring London's ever impressive architecture. I people watched wealthy shoppers and skirted around slower tourists, understanding their need to take everything in. I could never totally comprehend why locals complained so much about tourists being slow walkers- this was London. Even I was prone to taking my time in areas familiar to me, because I was very often struck by the beauty of my home city. As long as everyone stood on the right side of the tube escalators and not the left, I was content. I pegged Sherlock as one of the more impatient Londoners.

I closed my eyes for a few seconds as the electric doors slid open, sighing to myself as the air conditioning blasted on my face. I rounded up as many essentials as I could- coffee beans, cream, bread, general baking ingredients, pastas, fruits, vegetables. I wasn't as much of a cook as my dad was, but I had my fair share of knowledge and had mastered a few choice meals if I needed to impress a friend or a date.

"All right?" The very clearly angst-filled teen behind the counter asked me without making eye contact as I unloaded my basket.

"Yeah, you?"

"'mazing." He said emotionlessly.

I bagged everything myself in a few reusable satchels, giving the clerk a wave for good measure as I headed back out into the hustle and bustle, surprised to see him return it with a faint grin. I made it back to my car, walking around a few random blocks on my way just because the sun felt so welcomed on my skin. As soon as I touched the handle I felt my phone vibrate, excitedly fumbling with it to see what was happening over in the lab. I could understand why Sherlock got bored so easily; tagging along on something as exhilarating as a case and then meandering around a Tesco really put everything into perspective.

_John:_

_No news yet. See you in an hour?_

_See you then. _I responded quickly.

I passed through the neighbourhood of Marylebone on my way back to the flat, laughing to myself as I saw groups of pub hoppers dressed as vampires for one reason or another.

"London." I shook my head.

I threw together a colourful salad and brewed myself a French press of coffee when I got back to my flat. I shot my father a text to tell him I was enjoying my new place (even though I hadn't yet spent a night in it, I thought to myself) and that we were finally getting some sun in the city. I decided to unpack a few boxes after putting the groceries away just to get _something _done before needing to pick up the boys. My phone buzzed again, revealing a text from John simply stating:

_Bubblebath._

My eyes instantly widened and I fist pumped excitedly. "Yes!" I grabbed my keys and ran out the door, bumping into Mrs. Hudson outside of our building.

"Mrs. Hudson!"

"Evelyn! How are you doing, dear? Did you have a decent first night?"

"Marvelous. Really beginning to feel like home." I said hurriedly as I jogged to the driver's side door. "Off to Bart's. Breakthrough in the case. Talk soon!"

She clasped her hands together like a proud mum, waving and smiling before continuing on her merry way.

I pulled in front of Bart's in what wasn't even a parking spot and Sherlock and John quickly ran to the car.

"Drive, now." Sherlock said, slamming the door and grinning victoriously.

"Where?"

"Surrey." He said, half shouting in excitement.

I did a double take. "Again?"

"Again?" He mocked me in a higher pitched voice, "of course again." It was as though his excitement was about to pop the roof off the car so I didn't fight back in any attempt to protest or calm him.

"Come on, John! Are you entering the right number?"

"Yes!" John hissed, waving one hand in front of Sherlock's face to hush him as he fumbled to hold his phone up to his ear in an attempt to contact Helen. "She's not answering. Do I look up their home phone number?"

"Just to have Dr. Roylott answer? Are you daft?"

"So it was him? You know?" I asked.

"The bubblebath, a product under his name in both Julia and Helen's rooms, isn't even available in shops yet. A quick online search will tell you that. I found that it contains a slow acting poison. The only fingerprints on the bottle were-"

"Hello, yes, Helen." John said over everyone, instantly hushing us up as he feigned social normalcy. "Just a quick question about bubblebath liquid we decided to test… Yes, yes. You've been using that as well?"

John nodded and listened to Helen as we weaved through traffic, the lunchtime rush really starting to pick up as I pushed to get us out of the city.

"She says it was a gift from Roylott to both of them. He told them it had already been tested during its development." John summarised quietly, holding his mobile to his chest.

"Give me that." Sherlock spat. "Hello, Helen? Yes. This was no accident. Your stepfather killed your sister and every time you take a bath you're just one step closer."

"Sherlock!"

"Yep, taking that back." John said quickly. "You're out for coffee? Yes? _Don't _go home, all right? Don't contact your stepfather either, we'll get it sorted. Get another cappuccino, yeah? We're on our way, don't worry. Bye."

"There's one set of fingerprints on the bottle," Sherlock said excitedly, holding a pointer finger in front of my face to drive the point home. "Obviously those would belong to Julia. If it were any run of the mill gift, the giver's prints would also be visible. He stripped the bottle's exterior of any clues with solutions, he wore gloves when handling it, he put the puncture marks in Julia's ankle to deflect attention onto one of her fiancé's snakes. Oh, we've got you, haven't we." Sherlock finished, smiling and clenching his fists as he stared ahead.

"Oh, let's pray for more cases like this." John said, closing his eyes and smiling wistfully as he laid his head back. "Manor houses, obvious creeps, easy answers. Solved itself."

"Easy?" I questioned, "Was that before or after you were phoning every zoo in our area?"

I laid on the accelerator a bit extra, pulling into western Surrey in just over forty minutes.

"Do I just pull up?" I questioned.

"Why wouldn't we? No need to act as though anything suspect is going on just yet. Times like these call for being so overt it's covert."

I expected Sherlock to leap out of the car before we had even rolled to a stop, but he instantly put on a front of composure, taking his normal long and calculated strides to the front door while we followed closely behind. He rang the doorbell, rolling his sleeves up his forearms while we waited for someone to open the door. I stepped to the side and tried to peak through a window, expecting to see the doctor or one of the regular cleaners Helen had mentioned. I shared an uneasy glance with John as Sherlock took to ringing the doorbell repeatedly.

"Damn." He said, banging a fist against the door. I watched his shoulders rise as he took one deep breath before taking a few steps back to survey our surroundings. His eyes were drawn to a particular potted plant and I was able to observe that its dirt appeared to be more disturbed than the others… and that was before Sherlock dug both hands inside. After a few moments of scrounging in the dirt he held a ball of tin foil in his palm. He unwrapped it quickly, unearthing a house key that he immediately shoved into the door. When we entered the home I felt momentarily silly. Helen was out for coffee as we knew and perhaps Roylott had just left for a business meeting in London. Or, perhaps, he was in the house and knew the jig was up. If he had nothing to lose, who knew what he was capable of and _willing_ to do?

"Let's stay together, all right? Sherlock?" John said dubiously, sticking both hands out as he looked around the sitting room. I was now hyper aware of all the doors, hallways, stairways, closets, and assumed secret rooms within the structure.

"Listen." Sherlock said, walking past the formal sitting room. I took a deep breath as I tried to calm my anxiety and tune into my senses. In the distance it sounded as though a television or radio was playing.

"All of a sudden this is so much more eery." I whispered.

"And I didn't think that was possible." John whispered in return.

We followed Sherlock down a hallway that jutted out to the right behind the sitting room, one that we hadn't previously ventured down. I presumed this was where Roylott's bedroom and/or home office were. I got as close to Sherlock's back as I could, feeling more secure next to him. I was hopeful that a fraction of his confidence would somehow rub off on me. We walked until we were standing in front of the room the sound was issuing from. From the audio I could very clearly make out that it was some sort of news channel. I looked at the crack under the door and saw dancing blue toned lights from the telly. I tried to calm my breathing as Sherlock grasped the old doorknob, startling slightly as he jerked it open.

"Thank God." John said with a relieved hand over his heart. Thick curtains were drawn so the room was mostly dark, but aside from the blonde anchor speaking on the television screen, there was nobody in the office. We definitely weren't quiet upon entering the home so someone would have had time to tuck themselves away if they wanted to, but Sherlock didn't seem too concerned about someone hiding within this space. He walked behind Roylott's desk and placed both hands on it, lifting his head to look around the room, resembling a large cat on its haunches.

"Can we turn that off?" I quietly asked.

"Please." John said, grabbing the remote.

I stepped out of the office and made my way into the sitting room, momentarily abandoning our plan of sticking together. I slowly walked in circles as I thought, slightly afraid that if I stood in one spot for too long I would find myself with a knife in the back. That was paranoia talking, but valid under these circumstances. John joined me in the living room, running a hand through his hair.

"He's not in his bedroom either." He shrugged, pointing down the hallway.

"Good. I'm counting on him being out of the house entirely, thanks. What next?"

"The girls' rooms, I'd reckon. Finding anything, Sherlock?" John called down the hallway.

"Aside from a cockroach stuck to a lint roller, nothing of note." He responded flatly as he walked briskly out of the hallway. "Let's clear the first floor."

Sherlock decided to step out the back door and quickly scan the grounds while John and I moved down the hall. We checked a few closets and a pantry before I put a hand on the kitchen door and let it swing open as I walked inside, taking comfort and feeling a bit of gumption in the fact that I was already familiar with this room. Much like earlier, I was greeted with the unexpected. I gasped as I staggered backwards, a silent scream catching in my throat as my chest tightened and my knees became weak. As ghastly as it was, I couldn't peel my eyes away for want of convincing myself that it was real. John joined me seconds later and gasped as well, firmly grabbing both of my upper arms and instinctively pulling me backwards a few steps.

"Sherlock!" He shouted, as swaying ever so slightly as he hung from the kitchen light fixture, was a one Mr. Grimesby Roylott.

Sherlock sprinted down the hall, sliding to a stop as he stared open mouthed at the ceiling. He walked directly up to the body, staring at Roylott's face that was thankfully left staring out of the windows and not at us. After analysing the body for a few prolonged moments Sherlock slammed his open palm down on the table, plates and silverware left over from breakfast clattering from the impact. We would never know why Dr. Roylott committed such an act. His surviving stepdaughter would be left in complete darkness as to why he wanted to end her life. She'd be stuck knowing that she spent weeks grieving and finding comfort with the man that was responsible for her sister's end, but would never know the reasoning behind all of it.

After the initial shock I was surprisingly calm about the situation, following John as he walked over to look at the body more closely. I called the police as John and Sherlock discussed the situation, overhearing details of the supposed time of death and John frustratedly repeating, "Why?" as I spoke with the dispatcher. I wanted to call Helen before calling the police, but I felt better about the home and kitchen being more secure upon her arrival. She showed up as I was standing in the front garden, offering my description of the events and knowledge of the case to a couple of officers. Helen was obviously a wreck, but on her face I could clearly see a sense of relief. Relief that she knew she was going to be okay and that whomever was responsible could no longer touch her.

The time that we spent there after discovering the body was a blur. Flashing lights, talking to strangers, answering questions, telling the same story again and again, being thanked by officers and curious neighbours. I never did get to say goodbye to Helen as I wanted to provide her with some space, but I decided that down the line I would perhaps pay her a visit or send her a gift. Not flowers, I knew how sick I had grown of receiving those myself, but maybe some quality coffee that she could now make in the comfort of her home again. I didn't know how Sherlock and John moved from case to case without developing attachments and taking things so personally. Maybe they just hid it well.

I waved at John from across the garden when he seemed to be done with speaking to a group of first responders. Walking over to join him, hopefully find Sherlock, and finally head home.

"All right?" He asked.

"I guess." I hesitated. "Mostly relieved, but frustrated. I want to know everything, but this is all we're going to get. All _she's_ going to get." I gestured towards the house.

"Normally it does feel better than this," John nodded, "solving a case. You'll just have to tag along for more. That's what I decided to do." He winked, "Follow Sherlock around. Haven't had a desire to quit or move out yet. Well, not recently, let's say."

I smiled while searching his face. "Do you have him figured out yet? Any part of him?"

He laughed, "Absolutely not. I know that he's a walking contradiction. The cleverest man I know, but also the most ignorant. To be able to deconstruct all that a person is from just one glance, but to then turn around and ask me who the Prime Minister is. That's Sherlock Holmes. Everything in between is my own mystery to figure out, I reckon. All of this-" He gestured to the police and the manor. "That's his, at the end of the day. Not mine. I just show up."

"It's addicting, all of this, the solving and the spending time with him. Does that sound weird? Or worse, unintentionally affectionate?" I grinned.

"Trust me, I get it."

"I'm desperate to understand it all and humanise him. Find out what makes him tick aside from murder and chaos and yellow caution tape."

"I do know that he takes his coffee black with two sugars." John said, holding up a finger.

"That's a start." I smiled. "Speak of the devil." I glimpsed Sherlock heading towards us across the grass.

"That was disappointing." He said flatly, stopping and standing next to us.

"At least we know who's responsible. At _least." _I grimaced.

"Come on." John said, putting a hand on each of our backs and steering us towards my car. "I don't know about you, but I'm ready to get the hell out of Surrey."


	6. Chapter 6

Hi! I hope you're doing as well as you can be. Writing this story has been hugely comforting to me so I hope you enjoy it as well. Also, I think I'm going to switch over to American spelling? Just because? Might switch back, who knows. Just leaning into the fact that NOTHING IS CERTAIN RIGHT NOW, right? Right. Sending you optimism and coziness. x Oh, also I _must_ acknowledge your review about Tesco metros? Yes, one hundred percent f*ck Tesco metros :-)

…

The days following the end of the case were fairly quiet. I devoted the majority of my time to making my flat feel like home; hanging up the artwork my parents had gifted me, arranging throw pillows on the couch, ordering wallpapers and paints and light fixtures, setting up my record player. I was off to a good start, and at this point I was very truthfully excited about being able to call 221C my own.

I hadn't had a proper sit down with the boys since arriving home from Surrey. John and I would exchange the occasional text, mostly about Sherlock, and I would bump into them in the hall every now and again. I desperately wanted to tag along when the next case presented itself, but in my normal fashion I just couldn't entirely assert what I wanted for fear of intruding where I wasn't wanted or needed. What use would I be? I had a car, yes, but unless they needed to head over to Surrey again or up to York or perhaps Scotland, then I wasn't sure what sort of aid or input I could provide.

I had just finished giving the fireplace a proper cleaning, as even though it was July my basement flat was prone to feeling in the midst of an eternal chill. Maybe it was psychosomatic, but still. I was excited to be able to warm the place up by starting evening fires when I felt particularly cold. I finished cleaning just as one of my old records had quit playing, feeling inspired to go for a walk. I craved sunlight and fresh air, another side effect of living in a basement flat. I washed my hands and forearms of old ash and threw on a floral dress; faint pink with a dainty red flower pattern. An escape from my normal black threads as I was feeling colorful, deciding to go for a stroll around Notting Hill. My family and I had vacationed in New Orleans and Charleston when I was a teenager, so the vibrantly colored houses in Notting Hill reminded me of springs in the lively American south.

I poured Cat some food and sat with him on the floor, stroking his back while he ate. I decided that I could freshen up my home with some greenery. The stalls at Notting Hill would have overpriced plants, but I'd always been one to support smaller businesses and locals rather than corporations. I grabbed sunglasses and a few reusable bags in case I did more damage whilst shopping than I intended to. I was walking towards my car when I heard the front door of our building creak open and slam shut. The only person I could think of that would shut it like that was-

"Sherlock, hi."

"Where are you going?"

"Portobello Road Market. Thinking about going for a walk and picking up a few plants." I internally cackled at the idea of Sherlock having to tend to any living thing himself.

"Plants? How tedious. Why?" He scoffed.

"I mean, I live in a basement."

"I need to go to a bookstore." He said, still standing on the front step.

"And?"

"You could take me."

"You could also walk ten minutes to the one in Marylebone." I offered with a raised brow.

He shrugged.

"All right, come on." I gave up and said after a few moments of staring, getting into the driver's side.

"How did you manage to get by before you had a neighbor with a car?" I asked with a sly glance as I turned the key in the ignition.

"If someone I associate with has made the foolish decision to purchase a car in London then I need to ensure they get their money's worth."

I looked at him in surprise, "Nice one." He didn't let on that he had made any sort of joke, but I chose to interpret it as one. "You're coming with me to Notting Hill for the afternoon. You can go to one of the bookshops there." He was about to protest before I cut him off in jest, "That's the price you have to pay! Sorry."

"That market is a nightmare. I can't understand why one would voluntarily go."

"Spending time in the occasional crowd won't hurt you."

"1918 flu pandemic, the Plague of Justinian-"

"The Antonine plague, _165 AD._" I interjected, placing emphasis on the date. He looked faintly impressed. He was conversing with a history major and museum employee/nerd after all, "You can do it, Sherlock." I offered with friendly condescension, "You'll help me find a few plants, we'll go to your bookstore and hopefully along the way we won't come down with a form of the plague. You deal with corpses, poisons, murderers, weapons…" I trailed off as the list went on and on in my head.

"Welcomed excitement that I can mostly control." He shrugged. "Though any more control than I have and it wouldn't be exciting, would it? What could a corpse do to me?"

"Hm, right, or a madman dangling a gun in your face."

"That's just a simple mind game of 'how do I get inside this person's head and make them drop their weapon,' and it's exhilarating to crack. Crowds? Purely a nuisance."

I couldn't help the soft stream air that came out of my noise as I quietly laughed to myself.

"What? You're amused. Why?"

"Because… It's ironic that you're the person I'd want to have around if my flat were being burglarized or I was being mugged in Soho, but I would never call you to watch my cat as I'd be afraid you wouldn't realize cats need to be fed. Does that make sense?"

He shifted in his seat. "John has told me I'm ignorant and I'll admit, I have my certain areas of expertise and the rest of this is…" He swirled his fingers around near his ear.

"It's zero or one hundred."

"Yes. That." He pointed in my direction.

"I don't want you to think that I'm not impressed. It's just an observation."

"You're impressed?"

"I mean, yeah. Of course." Objectively I didn't see how one could dismiss his skills.

"I'm used to 'annoying', 'crazy', 'creep'. 'Impressive' is… Welcomed. And deserved." He grinned smugly.

I shook my head as we drove through Paddington along the basin. One of my favorite areas in London was its Little Venice, a series of tiny canals inhabited by house boats and surrounded by greenery and restaurants.

"I had my eighteenth birthday party here," I pointed towards the canals. "I rented a little boat and all of my friends wore party hats. We rowed around drinking gin and tonics and listening to music. Spice Girls, of course." He listened to me as I reminisced. I remembered that young, unsure girl fondly. Hair nearly down to her waist with an affinity for crop tops (short lived, thankfully) and always with a trusty, oversized denim jacket. I wasn't sure if he was interested in what I was saying, but I decided to share nonetheless.

I found a decent parking spot on a residential street in Notting Hill and stretched my arms in the sun as I got out of the car. I closed my eyes and lifted my face towards the sky for a few moments. I opened one eye and squinted to see Sherlock standing right in front of me.

"What?" I asked, knowing full well I looked slightly ridiculous. He continued to stare at me with crossed arms.

"Your flat has adequate windows. You couldn't understand." I huffed as I pulled a reusable shopping bag over my shoulder. "All right. We'll go to the book shop after the market?"

"And what, you'll carry your plants around the shop?"

"Fair point. We'll go there first."

"I can't figure out why you moved into 221C, of all the flats in London you could have picked. You could be living in one of these." He gestured incredulously to a lovely brick row house. "But you settled for mildew and darkness." He grimaced.

I could tell it bothered him that he couldn't fully grasp the concept of something. "I can't totally explain it myself." I smiled. "Mrs. Hudson is an old family friend, first of all, so when she mentioned she had a vacancy I said I would take it. I suppose in that moment I just knew that's where I was going to be right now, regardless of how gloomy or drab."

I stopped in my tracks and grabbed Sherlock's elbow. "Oh no." I muttered morosely.

"What?" He asked interestedly. I pointed to a garden across the street where a stray Julia Roberts cutout was lying abandoned in the grass and looking rather pathetic.

"Poor thing." I said, feigning pity.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and kept walking as I smiled to myself.

"What do you need to get from the bookshop anyway?" I asked, catching back up to him.

"Not sure." He responded flatly.

"Seriously?"

"What plants are you planning on buying?"

"I'm… not sure." I said as he grinned knowingly while staring at the sidewalk.

As we turned the corner off the residential street we could see the crowds lining the market down the way. Portobello Road Market was always hustling and bustling, and it was rare that I didn't find myself shoulder to shoulder with others while walking down the stall and shop lined street. I heard Sherlock groan next to me. I turned and smiled; though he wasn't physically dragging his feet, everything about his body language screamed "I'm stubborn."

"Do you know how many people would kill to be in Notting Hill on a summer afternoon?" I questioned.

"People _have_ resorted to killing for far more pointless reasons and somehow less gain."

"You're not wrong." I frowned slightly.

"Though that would mean a case, which we're in desperate need of."

"You haven't had one since Surrey?"

"No." He exasperatedly said, sticking out both hands in a gesture of frustration, "Summer is historically when people are even more brainless and senseless and resort to carrying out mysterious crimes in excess, but that doesn't seem to be the case because we _have no case_."

I watched him curiously as he vented. "I do admire that you're like a shark."

"What?" It was his turn to look at me curiously.

"Some die if they stop swimming." I shrugged.

"Brace yourself," Sherlock said out of the blue. I looked at his eyes, following his gaze into the hoards of people down the block. "That woman's going to approach us about something."

I squinted curiously into the crowd, noticing a woman holding a gigantic bouquet of flowers in the crook of her elbow and clutching a paper bag.

"Oh! Hi, June! All right?" I asked loudly across the street.

"Doing lovely, thanks." The petite blonde said as she waved while continuing on her way. "New boyfriend?" She mouthed dramatically, holding a hand next to her mouth in a pathetic attempt to be discreet. I laughed and shook my head as I returned her wave in passing.

"Sorry." I mumbled as Sherlock cleared his throat, "She's an old classmate, always been a busy body, clearly…" I honestly wasn't sure if I had romantic feelings for Sherlock, I hadn't allowed myself to think about it, but I couldn't ignore or dampen the butterflies I felt in my stomach at the mention of the idea.

As we ventured onto the market's main drag Sherlock stuck to my side, constantly bumping into my shoulder. My eyes wandered over passersby, vendors and their eclectic array of goods. There was a stand filled with ornate kettles and antique silver wear, copper pots and pans. There was a man with an impressive mustache and an even more impressive spread of luxury top hats, next to his stand a small older woman with wild grey curls standing in a small sea of large vases.

I tugged on Sherlock's sleeve and pointed to a cafe across the street. "Coffee." I smiled.

"You really need more caffeine?" He inquired.

"Always." I shrugged.

I had never been to this cafe before, but it smelled as divine as one would expect. The rich aroma of freshly ground coffee beans and buttery pastries was always welcomed. Sherlock tinkered with a rack of coffee mugs as I placed my order. I waited next to the counter, thanking the heavily tattooed and glasses wearing barista as he handed me the goods. I joined Sherlock next to the mugs and handed him his own to go cup. He blinked in surprise.

"Here." I said plainly, encouraging him to take the coffee. "Black with two sugars. John mentioned it once, so it's his fault if that's wrong." I finished while he continued to look surprised as he grasped a hand around the drink.

"There's a bookshop just down the block." I said before taking a sip of my very strong iced latte as Sherlock followed me out of the coffee shop. It was a bit strange to feel in charge of the situation and the afternoon. I thought back to the case and how I felt like a lost puppy following Sherlock around Surrey, except now there was no looming murder or murderer or poison or snakes, just coffee and plants and homemade pottery.

We made our way down the street, Sherlock offering commentary about the authenticity (or lack-thereof) of products based on the vendor manning the stall, also providing observations of passersby and their lives.

"He's been sleeping on the couch." Sherlock said quietly, with raised brows and a slight point in the direction of a man with bags under his eyes and tussled hair. I realized the gentleman had slightly tensed shoulders, presumably resulting from a sore back, which I wouldn't have noticed unless otherwise pointed out to me. "Undoubtedly on his way to that flower stand."

We stepped to the side of the sidewalk under a restaurant's awning to watch for a few more moments, Sherlock making a satisfied clicking noise with his teeth when the man of course planted his feet in front of the bouquets. I watched as he ran a stressed hand through his hair for probably the umpteenth time that day, pointing at a luscious pink and orange bouquet. I observed for a few more seconds, lost in thought as Sherlock walked briskly towards the bookshop. I mentally shook myself out of a slight stupor and followed in his tracks after he stepped inside. I took in the bookshop's displays facing the street; the charmingly lopsided bay windows housed new releases, literary posters and children's books next to homely plushies. I half smiled at the Frog and Toad toys seated next to each other. I pushed into the shop, a bell above the door ringing as I instantly felt at home surrounded by the faint aroma of old wood and books.

"Hello." A grey haired man smiled at me from behind the front desk, holding a cup of tea in one hand and a pen in the other as he marked some sort of manuscript. "Looking for anything in particular today, madam?"

"Just going to let myself be surprised. Is this all right?" I pointed to my latte, unsure if he'd want drinks inside and certain that Sherlock wouldn't have asked.

He responded by lifting his own cup of tea and nodding his head.

"Cheers." I peered around a few aisles until I found Sherlock. I decided not to join him as he appeared deep in thought whilst crouched and eyeing selections on the bottom shelf, so I walked past and quickly offered, "I'll be upstairs."

I had been to this bookshop a number of times with my parents, my father especially. I reckoned I had been to every bookshop worth visiting in London with him. There was a small upstairs that housed a large assortment of used books. I usually came away with a history book or a humorously horrible coffee table book. The old stairs made like the shop's old hardwood floors and creaked as I ventured upwards. The attic was much hotter than the downstairs and I instantly felt like I had entered into some sort of bizarre dream state. The small windows overlooking the road below were cranked open, the paper star lanterns hanging in front of them swayed in the mellow breeze. A radio was quietly playing classical music through a comforting layer of static. I walked over to a tub of books near the window and began digging.

After a few minutes I hadn't found anything good or bad enough to ironically buy, so I stood and stuck my head out of the window to view the market below. A woman seemed to be arguing with a bike rider across the way. I watched as a man walked in front of the bookshop whilst all too casually holding a French horn. I turned away from the live entertainment and ventured into an aisle of more used books. A middle aged woman in a very smart blazer and glasses was flipping through a book on yoga before lifting her eyes to give me a friendly smile. She seemed to give me a double-take before returning to her reading. I figured I had something on my face and reached for a Cary Grant biography and a book on Ancient Greek Pottery.

I resumed my place next to the open windows to bask in the sun and the breeze while I flipped through pages. My senses were dulled in the heavy air of the attic room so I was surprised to look up and see Sherlock had joined me, a paper bag tucked under his arm.

"You've checked out already?"

"A keen observation." He replied sarcastically, stepping forward to stare out the window next to me. I turned to join him in watching the action below.

"What did you find?" I asked while glancing at a cat in an adjacent window. The paper bag crinkled as he flexed his arm tighter around the parcel and looked at me with an impish glint in his eyes. For some reason he wasn't going to tell me. I shook my head and decided to put my books back, the woman in the aisle giving me another prolonged glance as I did so. As I turned around she placed a gentle hand on my upper arm, causing me to turn around surprisedly.

"I… I'm so sorry for your loss." She looked at me with sincerity in her eyes and I felt my chest tighten and cheeks go red. It wasn't entirely uncommon for me to be recognized as my mother's daughter. The bombing had of course been international news and the local coverage had, for good reason, been obnoxious. Though sympathetic recognition had happened quite a number of times, the uncanny feeling never lessened.

"Thank you." I replied earnestly as the woman pulled me into a deep hug and then quickly walked down the stairs with her eyes downcast. I hadn't immediately realized that I had become misty eyed at the gesture, and wiped away any precarious tears on my bottom lashes as I stood rigidly unmoving in the aisle. I felt Sherlock's presence behind me but I didn't turn around.

"That… happens?" He questioned incredulously. Emotionally charged exchanges struck me as far beyond his wheelhouse.

"Yeah, it's fine. I'm fine. I'm used to it." I offered quickly. I was moved by the woman's sweetness and was thankful for her kindness, aware that I would mentally return to moments like this for strength for the rest of my days. Even though it was overwhelmingly heartwarming, I still felt uncomfortable. Hugging a woman nearly my mother's age also reminded me of what would forever be lost to me.

"You're all right, yes?" He asked uncomfortably.

"Of course." I finally turned around and breathed deeply, doing my best to smile and hold my head high. "It's just strange, as you could imagine. Lovely, but strange."

"Sounds like you." He said in his casual tone that would sound nearly insulting if you didn't know him, though the implication caught me off guard.

A tilted my head to clarify in near shock, "Lovely?"

_"Strange._ Very strange." He offered swiftly, "So it doesn't surprise me that that's what you'd attract. Though, I mean, there are pleasant enough aspects to you that accompany the strangeness, I suppose one could objectively say." He said, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck as he likely realized he didn't want to totally hurt my feelings.

"Nearly a compliment." I said, turning around and heading for the stairs. I didn't let on that I thought it was funny, also finding some humor in making him uncomfortable.

"I mean, that's not to say you're entirely unpleasant." He offered again, stomping down the stairs behind me. The man at the front desk lifted his cup of tea in farewell as I waved and we pushed back into the bustling market.

"Your flattery knows no bounds, Sherlock Holmes." He continued to look unsettled as we bumped through the crowd, feeling as though we were in the human equivalent of a pinball machine.

"You're recognized often?"

"Enough. I suppose I sealed the deal after appearing in a few television interviews."

Sherlock made a noise that registered as… frustrated? Angry? Aggressively victorious? I hadn't a clue. He clenched his fist and said, "How did I not remember?"

"What? Why does it matter?"

"I'm obviously not prone to forgetting details like that. The fact that I didn't recall watching you on television without prompt is highly agitating." He replied with a concerned hand on his forehead. "I can't afford that sort of slip up." I looked at him for a few moments longer, my mind racing.

"Agitating? How troubling for you," I said brusquely, "You should be thankful that's something you're separate from, that you're able to casually forget. I envy you, sincerely."

"Well-"

"Not everything is a game," I continued while looking straight ahead and keeping my voice low as we walked, "Game_. _Noun. A form of _play_ or _sport. _Life is a sensitive gamble, if anything. When you're dealing with crime you're dealing with lives, not pawns or players. The most striking example of game and playful competition surrounding you that I've been able to perceive is just that of you against yourself."

"You're saying this as though it's entirely negative."

I thought for a few moments and then responded earnestly, "I suppose it's not. I'll commend the drive and self betterment it encourages."

"My mind is its own battleground, yes, and this is not something I can turn off. Believe me, I spent years trying to quiet it. What I have the power to turn off is sensitivity, how I choose to perceive crimes, cases, _l_-_lives_," He stuttered, "If I bore the curse of empathy I wouldn't be able to pursue justice in the way that I do. Emotions are noise. Loud, needless, noise." He said hurriedly, taking a final swig of his coffee and crumpling the empty container with one hand. At this point I had nearly tuned out our busy surroundings as I locked into Sherlock's words.

"Isn't there insight to be found in connecting with people? Being in touch with your feelings and those of others as you work a case or just move through life? You _really_ believe that numbing emotions to such an extent can be healthy?" I frowned in contemplation, "Speaking as someone that has personal experience."

"Everything to gain, nothing to lose." He offered confidently as his eyes searched the crowd until glancing into mine as I stared uncertainly.

"That's so… sad." I said straightforwardly, shrugging.

"Quite the opposite."

"You think?" I stopped in my tracks and asked dubiously.

"I _know_." He said, grabbing both of my shoulders and turning me around so I was facing a lush array of flowers and greenery that I had been unaware of.

The previous conversation was dismissed as I took a quick stroll around the plants, admiring tall cacti and luscious ferns.

"This one's lovely." I crouched in front of a small tree with hearty, wide leaves concentrated towards the top. The stout stall owner walked my way and crossed his arms next to me, unintentionally mimicking Sherlock's crossed arms and tilted head to my left.

"She is, isn't she." The man said with a delightfully thick Welsh accent, "A fiddle leaf fig tree, that is." He said with a point of a soil covered finger.

"Does it need a lot of sun?"

"Just lots of indirect light. Move it in front of a window every now and again I'd say."

"Perfect." I smiled, envisioning the tree between the window and fireplace in my sitting room.

I paid for the fig tree and a thriving little string of pearls plant and was thankful when the man offered to hold the plants so we could drive closer and not have to carry them all the way back to the car.

"Let's cut over." I said as we began our walk back, gesturing in the direction of more residential streets. I wiped the back of my hand over my lightly perspiring forehead as we strolled into the glaring afternoon sun.

"Too crowded?" Sherlock smirked in condescension, his parcel free arm swinging with every step.

I shook my head as we turned the corner and sought a sliver of shade under a colorful line of row houses.

"I'm assuming this is the last time?" I offered.

"Hm?" Sherlock grunted.

"That you ask me for a ride." I replied with a glance in his direction.

I could have sworn there was a trace of a grin on Sherlock's face. "Unfortunately, I don't predict that to be the case. As I'd stated, I believe it's of importance that you get your money's worth in frequent use of the vehicle to make a foolish decision slightly less foolish. _Slightly._"

"I see. Then it's only logical you give my door a knock the next time you two wrangle a case?" I asked with more confidence in my tone than I felt.

"Likely." He said firmly, not lifting his gaze from the pavement.

Outwardly I remained collected and quiet, but inwardly I was bursting with excitement. I tucked a tendril of hair behind my ear as it blew in the hot breeze, basking in the sun and thrill that was a sense of adventure and purpose.


	7. Chapter 7

I cannot even begin to tell you how much these reviews have made my day! Thank you for your kind words, everyone. I hope you're doing all right out there.

x

The drive back home from Notting Hill was a bit more quiet as we both sat and savored in the cold blast of car air conditioning. My plants were secure in the back seat, Sherlock rolling his eyes as I'd chosen to buckle them in with seat belts as a precaution.

"Was John in today?" I questioned, surprised that he hadn't communicated with either of us during the long afternoon.

"No. He's off with some woman, apparently." Sherlock grumbled.

"Really?" I asked surprisedly, "Way to go, John! Good for him." I lightly smacked the steering wheel for emphasis.

Sherlock grunted indifferently.

"Come on, a new relationship? Or… whatever it is? That's exciting, Sherlock. At least he's not as bored as you are." I said as the detective oozed an aura of annoyance at his roommate's absence and newly filled free time.

"I think he finally realized you weren't attainable." Sherlock grinned with a trace of mischievousness. I quickly gathered that he was trying to get back at his friend in a way, so I brushed it off as a lie and shook my head.

"No way." I replied with a scrunched nose as I pulled in front of 221. Though he had attempted to be overly suave upon our first meeting, that demeanor had quickly dropped and he never came across as even remotely flirtatious. If John had actually been interested, I almost felt it necessary to give him a few pointers down the line.

"Yes_… _way?" Sherlock said, the phrase not sounding natural coming out of his mouth as he shut the car door. "The fact that you were so blind to his… _feelings_ for you is quite frankly impressive but mostly concerning." The word "feelings" also sounded entirely unnatural coming from him.

"Though I'd trust your instincts in a litany of departments, 'feelings_'_ is not one of them." I replied as I grabbed the string of pearls plant and hugged the large pot to my chest. "He laid on a bit of charm at first but that isn't anything to overthink." I followed Sherlock to the front door and was a bit miffed he didn't hold it open for me, giving it a kick as I had no free hands. I was then surprised to see he was busy unlocking my front door.

"You have a key to my flat?" I asked in surprise. "Since when?"

He jingled the keys between his thumb and pointer finger in response. "You're officially involved in casework. You're bound to make enemies or be targeted. If I have reason to suspect you're somehow in danger whilst at home I won't have to go through the annoying faff of breaking down your door."

I stared at him with a slightly open mouth, never ceasing to be amazed by how he operated socially and what he got up to in his spare time. An action of this sort was likely just scratching the surface. My stomach flipped slightly as I also took a mental note of the sentence "you're bound to make enemies or be targeted."

"Just don't try this with any future neighbors." I said, shaking my head. "You're lucky I think highly enough of your character." I thanked him as he actually held this door open for me. "Do I get a key to _your_ flat then?"

"We only lock it when we leave, so unless you're on a mission to snoop…" He tossed his bookshop parcel onto my counter.

"I'd be afraid of what I'd find," I said as I squatted with the pot, setting the plant on the floor in front of the window until I had a few minutes to hang it up somewhere, "John gave me a rundown of everything he's found in the fridge."

"Oh, was this alone time with John?" Sherlock mocked, following me back out the door as I went to retrieve the fig tree.

"It was a text!" I smiled and dramatically declared while turning around and walking backwards, my hair catching in the hot summer wind blowing at my back as I stared at Sherlock. "Come off it."

"_You_ didn't have to listen to him go on and on about you right after you moved in. Him hyping himself up just to ask if you needed help with carrying all of your groceries or furniture."

"Wish he were here right now then." I said flatly, my arms shaking as I lifted the even heavier fig tree out of the back seat. I was surprised when Sherlock swiftly grabbed the pot out of my grasp, watching as his slim but strong forearms flexed as he carried it with more ease than I could. I jogged ahead to hold the door open for him, quickly putting my hands over his and lowering the pot as I realized the top half would have hit the doorframe.

"Well, if he wanted to pursue me he did an abysmal job." This statement seemed to tickle Sherlock. He let out a rare and proper laugh as he set the plant between the fireplace and the window after I pointed in that direction. I smiled with my hands on my hips.

"Do you want something to drink? Sparkling water, wine, juice…" I trailed off as I opened my fridge door. "I can assure you I have nothing suspicious or morbid in here. Maybe that's a disappointment…" I muttered, biting my bottom lip as my eyes searched each shelf.

I turned and stared at him, leaning against the fridge as I waited for an answer. He shifted in place in the living room, for some reason seemingly unsure of what to do.

"I'm going to the bathroom. Feel free to grab something or head back upstairs." I said with a little wave of my hand as I walked down the hallway.

I looked at myself in the mirror, realizing I had gotten quite a bit of sun on my face. The sparse smattering of freckles on my nose were slightly more pronounced, my skin more tanned in the v-shaped neckline of my dress. A few minutes later I washed my hands and stepped back out into the hallway, slightly surprised but glad to see Sherlock was still there, leaning against the wall and staring out the window at Baker Street with a perspiring glass bottle of sparkling water in hand.

"Waiting for John to come home, are we?" I jested, deciding to step on the counter so I could grab one of the bottles of wine I had placed on top of the cabinets. "Don't judge." I said softly, feeling his curious and possibly judgmental gaze behind me.

"For the wine or for standing on your countertop?"

"Both, I suppose." I said distractedly, pulling open drawers and searching for a wine opener.

"I think it's important to gain the perspective of one's kitchen from on top of the counter. I also find it valuable to sit upside-down on a chair, though the concept of upside down is subjective." Sherlock said, joining me in the kitchen while pulling his keys out of his pocket again and confidently jamming one into the cork before popping it out. My eyes widened in appreciation and slight awe at how quickly he made work of opening it. As I poured myself a glass I heard the building's front door open followed by footsteps, internally questioning if it was Mrs. Hudson or John.

"It's John. Hear the limp?" Sherlock asked brusquely as if reading my mind, opening my door and turning around to head back into the living room without saying anything or even glancing into the hallway.

"John? Sherlock and I are in here." I said loudly, with a pointed glance in Sherlock's direction for leaving me hanging.

I grinned as John popped his head in and waved while smiling, "Hello." He was clearly in an especially jovial mood, and I anticipated this would only set Sherlock off more for some reason. Sherlock didn't turn around, he just continued to sit on the couch facing away from the door, taking an aggressive swig of his water.

"Doing well?" I asked, knowingly grinning.

"Yeah." He said, dragging out the single syllable and stretching, looking pleased with himself before looking between us and pausing mid stretch to point at Sherlock and then myself. "What have you two been up to?" I realized we might look slightly suspect, especially with the wine glass in my hand thrown into the mix.

"We went to Portobello Road Market because I wanted plants," I gestured to my living room's new additions near the window and then to the brown paper bag on the counter next to John, "and Sherlock wanted to go to a bookshop."

John reached for the bag and attempted to peek inside before Sherlock quickly leapt up and ran over to snatch it, holding it above John's head as John rolled his eyes.

"Really? Is it _that_ big of a deal, Sherlock?" He huffed.

"No, not really." Sherlock said flatly, walking back to the couch.

"He didn't let me look either." I said, taking another sip of wine. "Do you want some?" I asked, pointing to my glass.

John glanced at Sherlock before clapping once and responding with, "It's nearly dark. Why not?"

I took a seat on the armchair next to the fireplace, studying Sherlock's demeanor. He shot a glance my way and I didn't shy or look away, I just tilted my head slightly before I turned my focus to John again.

"What did _you _get up to today?" I interrogated, my lips stretching into a smile behind my glass.

"Er- well," John rubbed a hand on the back of his neck.

"Now he's being shy. See?" Sherlock said, not looking at me but tilting his bottle in my direction and raising his eyebrows.

"What's that supposed to mean?" John asked while taking a seat on the other end of the couch, letting his head fall back as he tilted it towards the ceiling and closed his eyes in slight annoyance.

"I don't even know," I said quickly, "I'm happy for you, John. Is there another date in your future?"

"Hopefully." He offered, smiling wistfully and taking a gulp from his glass.

I smiled as I listened to John describe the woman he was seeing. His high spirits were infectious, at least to me. Not so much to Sherlock. During a lull in the conversation I got up to refill John and I's glasses before walking over to the fridge to grab a bowl of cut fruit and some sliced crusty bread on the counter. A slightly random spread but something to snack on nonetheless. After standing I realized that I was already feeling a mental fuzz from the tall glass of wine I had thrown back. When I set everything on the table I noticed my cat had quickly made himself comfortable in my armchair, so I took a seat on the bricks in front of the fireplace. After a few moments Sherlock wordlessly shifted to the arm of the couch. I didn't move at first, surprised by the courteous action. John looked nearly flabbergasted.

"Are you going to sit or not?" Sherlock asked pointedly, rhythmically tapping his fingers on his San Pellegrino.

"There it is." John held up a pointer finger with a tight lipped and frustrated grin, "_Almost_ a thoroughly nice gesture."

"I'll take it." I said, settling into the couch that was still warm from its previous occupant. On the coffee table in front of us there was an empty coffee mug leftover from the morning, instantly reminding me of our bizarre morning spent with Dr. Roylott.

"Oh, John! The new blog post was good. I especially loved how adamant you were about the fact that you slept on the floor." I said. Sherlock snorted next to me, even though I wasn't trying to poke fun.

"Thanks." He said, genuinely smiling this time. "I should have asked if you wanted to be included, I just assumed…"

"It's quite all right. I even sent a link to my father yesterday so you've got yourself a new subscriber." I raised my glass in a sort of salute, but watched as some form of realization swept across John's face and he started chuckling to himself as I grew slightly concerned.

"That's right… Evelyn, your dad's a writer." John said with a hand on my shoulder, as though this was groundbreaking information.

"And?"

"I think I know why Sherlock didn't show us what he bought at the bookshop today." John continued to laugh, taking pleasure in making his friend squirm. I gasped quietly and grinned as I looked at Sherlock, quickly getting up on my knees to be nearly at eye level with him though he was fixated on the hardwood floor.

"That has to be true." I said, continuing to grin as he got off the couch and started walking swiftly out of the room. "It's totally fair, Sherlock. You shouldn't be embarrassed." I offered, following him into the hallway as he remained stone faced.

"Why would I be embarrassed? How are you so certain that John's correct? I have my fair share of secrets, projects, studies… Emphasis on the word 'secret.'"

"It makes sense," I persisted as I stayed on his heels going up the stairs, "I'll admit I've searched you on the internet, I've read the papers. It's the same thing, you know. It's only natural to want to gain some sort of insight into new acquaintances, especially neighbors. And _especially _neighbors that have a key to your flat or vice-versa."

We had reached the top of the stairs and he opened the door of his flat, standing on the other side of the door frame as we stared at each other in intimidatingly close proximity for a few more seconds before he closed it. I listened but didn't hear the click of a lock, the only assurance I needed that he wasn't entirely shutting John and I out.

x

I awoke and rubbed my warm and well rested face into my pillow, stretching each limb rather dramatically. I realized this was the first night in a long while that I hadn't awoken from a night terror, or stared at the dark ceiling with intense waves of anxiety, or been rocked from sleep by outside noises or, very specifically, suspicious shadows on the other side of my door (I had my fingers crossed that this was a one time thing). I had no plans for the day but decided to get ready anyway in hopes that it would inspire some sort of agenda or motivation. I ran my hands over the clothes on my rack and settled on a sage green boiler suit, appreciating its practicality and comfortingly structured fabric. I pulled my hair into some sort of ponytail and put in small, gold hoop earrings that had been a gift from my mother. I had just finished eating my toast when my flat shook with a horrendously loud popping noise from upstairs. A gunshot.

I stood up in confusion for a few seconds before grabbing a serrated knife from a nearby drawer. I ran into the hallway, ducking and looking up the stairs when another shot rang out. I put a finger in one ear and braced myself as I ran up the stairs, Sherlock's statement about being targeted for working cases playing over and over in my head. I whipped Sherlock's door open as yet another shot rocked my eardrums. I fully opened my eyes after squinting them in response to the noise, lowering my knife as I realized Sherlock was the one holding the gun. I stood in disbelief as my heart continued to race.

"Sherlock!" I yelled. I heard footfalls coming up the stairs behind me, raising my pathetic little knife again until I turned and saw John running towards us with fingers in his ears.

"Can someone tell me what the _hell_ is going on in here?" John demanded, looking down at my apparent weapon of choice and then at Sherlock lying upside down on a chair with a gun in hand.

"Trust me, I don't have the _slightest_ clue." I said shakily, turning to look back in Sherlock's direction.

"Bored. I'm _bored_." Sherlock groaned.

"I thought you had both been killed." I said, staring at the ground with a hand on my forehead before Sherlock tossed his pistol into his non dominant hand and fired another shot, tossing it back once more and firing yet another.

"Damnit, Sherlock!" John shouted, stepping forward and grabbing the hot pistol from Sherlock's hand before locking it in a nearby safe.

"I can't believe we both ran up here…" John reflected, looking at me as we both questioned our sanity, and probably both realized how devoted we were to this peculiar and temperamental man. I let myself sink to the floor, sliding the knife across the hardwood and away from me as I lightly pressed the palms of my hands into my eyes and sighed.

"Who wants tea?" I asked with my head between my knees, realizing that sounded like as good a tonic as any for my frazzled morning nerves.

John responded with a "yes" and Sherlock raised an arm in response, letting it flop off the back of the armchair underneath him. As much as I wanted to view him as pathetic in this state; bare feet, silk robe, pajamas, morning hair, currently pitiful attitude and all, I couldn't entirely.

"Why were you out front?" I asked John curiously as Sherlock continued to gripe and moan from his chair in angst and boredom.

"Phone call," He responded slightly bashfully, "Sarah."

"Good phone call?" I asked, trying and failing to judge his expression before adding, "Er, bad phone call? You know people should really learn how to do that in person these days." I finished, grabbing a pack of teabags from on top of the microwave.

"She did not break up with me, thank you very much." John said defensively as Sherlock looked rather amused at this exchange, "Not that we're a 'thing'," He added with air quotes, "but we might no longer be _anything _after she heard me yell something about my roommate and a gun as shots were being fired in the background. Do we have anything to eat?" He asked quickly and aggressively, throwing both hands in the air out of frustration.

I watched as he opened the fridge and then immediately slammed it shut, closing his eyes and keeping them closed as he asked, "Was that a head?"

"Yes." Sherlock responded, migrating from the chair to the couch.

"In the fridge?" He clarified in disbelief.

"Yes."

"Why?" I asked incredulously. "Is it… is it bundled up? In plastic?"

"Nope. No. Not at all." John repeated, shaking his own head.

"I got it from Bart's."

"Is that supposed to make it better?" John asked, smacking a fist on the fridge.

"I'm measuring the coagulation of saliva after death." He replied nonchalantly.

I poured hot water from the kettle into each teacup, realizing that my hands were still shaking.

"I'm going to Speedy's. What do you want? A breakfast sandwich?" I quickly asked John, who nodded with his pointer finger and thumb pressed on the bridge of his noise.

I walked to stand over Sherlock who had his legs kicked over the arm of the sofa as he lied down and stared back up at me.

"You. Do you want anything?" I inquired, turning my attention to the smiley face on the wall that he had expertly sent bullets through. I walked over to it and ran my hand across the scorched holes, admiring his aim but refusing to compliment anything about it in fear of giving him any sort of encouragement.

"Just tea for me."

"It's on the counter." I responded quietly, closing the door and heading downstairs. I collected myself as I ran into my flat and grabbed my wallet, crossing my fingers that no one nearby had called the police. I assumed that 221 had some sort of flag within Scotland Yard, a flag that specified "it's easier to just not get involved at this address."

I walked cautiously into Speedy's, expecting everyone to have either evacuated or be discussing the fact that they'd just heard five gunshots, though everything seemed business as usual. There was loud coffee shop jazz music playing and pots and pans clanging in the back as retirees congregated during the weekday morning to discuss grandchildren and local sports and London news. I waved at the college aged girl behind the counter and placed a to go order for two breakfast sandwiches and a small assortment of sweet and savory pastries to tide John over for the day (pastries that wouldn't require refrigeration).

I left with my goods, surprised to see John exiting the front door of our building in a huff, annoyedly tugging on the heavy lapels of his coat.

"Where are you going?" I asked, pulling his sandwich out of the paper bag. He offered his thanks as he grabbed it with both hands, as if it were the greatest gift he'd received.

"My girl- er, my friend's. I just need to get out of there. You can babysit today." He said, waving a hand in the direction of his flat in dismissal. I tilted my head and frowned slightly. "Sorry." He said sincerely, sticking a hand up in farewell as he walked away.

I stepped into 221 only to see Mrs. Hudson closing the door to the boys' flat in as much of a huff as John.

"It's as if he needs supervision at all times," She started, "not that supervision would stop him. Firing a gun at the wall. That's a new one… I shouldn't be surprised anymore but here we are. I love him dearly, but I'm going to need to bring 'round a repair man and a priest next time… Hi, Evelyn, dear." She waved as she left the building without even looking in my direction. I stood with my hand still up as if to wave, clenching my fingers and letting my arm fall to my side. I was amazed that Sherlock had inspired nearly everyone in his circle to leave his flat in an agitated state within the last ten minutes.

I made my way upstairs, holding the box of pastries above my head.

"These are mostly for John," I said as I nudged open the cracked door with my foot, "and please just leave them out on the counter." I set them on the dining room table he was standing next to, joining him as he stared at the smiley face on the wall, though I was mostly observing him out of curiosity. There were days where I was certain I had made advances in figuring out even a fraction of his habits and personality, then there were days like today. I was learning that nothing was predictable in 221B.

"Your tea is still steeping, Sherlock."

"Is it?" He asked quietly, finally turning his attention away from the wall and towards me.

In a fraction of a second I felt the ground below us shudder as the windows next to us blew out. Simultaneously a deafening boom felt as though it consumed all of my senses as we were knocked to the ground. Before my body hit the hardwood I reached forward and grabbed whatever part of Sherlock my hands could find in that meager and panicked sliver of time. I wasn't sure of anything as we hit the floor.

x

At first it was as though I was feeling my body secondhand, through a haze and from a distance. Over the course of a few moments I became increasingly aware of the ache in my head as it rested on the floor, the ache in my right shoulder, a stinging on the back of my arm, my throbbing lower lip, a tender right knee. I also became aware of the fact that there was a hand holding the back of my head and an arm limply encircling my waist. I attempted to flex my fingers and realized my hands were surrounded by smooth fabric. I slowly and reluctantly opened my eyes, afraid to cement whatever had happened as reality.

Sherlock was lying next to me, nearly on top of me as my hands were clenching onto the fabric of his light blue silk robe, now covered in a thin blanket of some sort of grey powder. I lifted my hands up, thankful to observe that there wasn't a scratch on them. I turned to lay more on my side, noticing that Sherlock didn't appear to be outwardly injured, only unconscious as I had been. The fact that I couldn't even hear sirens yet helped me determine that we had only been out for a few seconds.

"Sherlock." I said, surprised that my voice came out so quietly. "Sherlock!" I repeated, more confidently this time, putting a tender hand on his shoulder and squeezing lightly. I was afraid to hurt him further if he was injured. I breathed a sigh of relief as his eyes opened, feeling the fingers he had resting around my waist twitch slightly. Realization crept across his face as he stared at me whilst slowly removing his arm from underneath me and his hand from my hair to run it through his own dark and messy locks.

I focused on breathing in and out as I tried my best to suppress any thoughts of the British Museum. After all, I didn't even know if this had been a bomb or some sort of freak accident. Not that it would have made a huge difference. It had the same effect.

"Are you all right?" I asked as we both sat up, my heart racing as tears of panic that I couldn't control welled in my eyes.

"Your lip." He replied, roughly grabbing my chin with his hand and squinting his eyes.

"Is it cut?" I asked through slightly smushed cheeks from his grip, watching him closely as he analyzed my features.

"Yes," He observed, "and your forehead is going to ache for the next couple of days."

"You look fine, I think." I stated after he pulled his hand away. We looked at each other before he started laughing. I didn't expect it, but I soon joined in. The tears that had been precariously balancing on my lash line fell, but I wiped them away as I continued to smile. I lifted my left arm to wipe them from my left cheek when I felt a stinging tug in my upper arm. I sucked air in through my teeth as I looked down at my grimy skin, seeing a small but sizable enough shard of glass sticking out of it. I grimaced as I pinched and pulled it out. We both lifted our heads up towards the now nonexistent windows as we finally heard sirens in the distance. I inhaled the chilled air pouring in from outside. I tried moving my feet, the glass around my boots crunching, but I was relieved to feel no pain. Sherlock came out of this quite lucky, with only a few tiny cuts on his knuckles and feet.

My eyes widened as I thought about the extent of the damage. "My cat." I said to myself. "My cat!" I scrambled up, slipping slightly on the glass and strewn papers, taking a second to mourn the breakfast pastries that were scattered across the floor. It felt as though my heart was in my throat, my breath quickening with every step as I ran down the stairs. I was relieved to see that the damage didn't seem to extend much further beyond Sherlock's door, but I couldn't be sure until I entered my flat. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes as I held onto the doorknob with both hands, whipping it open to see my cat sitting on the counter and staring at me expectantly. I ran over and scooped him up. I officially let the tears that I had suppressed fall freely. I gulped in air as I lowered myself to the floor, ignoring the small stream of blood trickling down towards my elbow as the fire department and law enforcement started pouring in through the building's front door.


	8. Chapter 8

After minutes of insisting that I was fine, a group of first responders finally convinced me it was imperative that they checked me over and scoped out my flat for any other potential hazards or explosives. I looked up the stairs as they pulled me out of the front door, wishing luck to whichever medics or officers were stuck with the task of persuading Sherlock to do the same.

As we stepped outside I wasn't surprised, but still a bit perturbed by the amount of people that had already gathered to see what all the commotion had been. Children were pointing at me, hushed by their parents as officers were attempting to block off and secure our section of the street. I made brief eye contact with the young woman I recognized for having just taken my order at Speedy's, also being led by medics to one of the service vehicles. I craned my neck to peer around the small crowd and trucks with their lights flashing, noticing damage to most of the buildings around us. In my panic a few minutes prior I hadn't realized that my windows had also been blown out, bricks littering the sidewalk in front of my flat. I searched for my car and was thankful it had been parked a few less destructed buildings down after I'd gone out to pick up takeaway the evening before.

They pulled me into the back of an ambulance and began poking and prodding at me, asking for personal details as they sprayed something on my lip and applied a skin adhesive to close up the cut. Though the small wound on my arm had bled a bit, it was too small to require any stitches. I turned down their offer to take me to the nearest hospital, maintaining that I didn't think I had a concussion or any sort of head trauma. I blinked as a gloved hand was being waved in front of my face.

"Sorry?" I questioned in confusion.

"I asked if you have any medical history." The very maternal EMT asked, placing the same hand on my knee.

I stared at the ambulance's closed doors in front of me and shook my head, "Honestly, I'm fine. I've felt worse after crashing a bike."

"We've seen our fair share of nasty bike crashes, so I believe you." She said, snapping her glove and fussing with metal contraptions and little plastic packages on a sterile tray. "You're under no obligation to go to the hospital, all right? I just want to make sure they've given you the all clear to reenter the building." She finished, giving my leg one more comforting pat.

I nodded once in acknowledgement before she quickly left through the ambulance's back doors. I sat and pressed a finger onto my right knee, feeling a strange sense of comfort in its dull soreness and wondering if it was already bruised. I listened to the cacophony of unintelligible voices, sirens, and doors slamming shut in the long stretch of minutes that I waited for her to return. It felt like an eternity, and I was tempted to leave and just walk down Baker Street, away from the mess.

"All right, love? You can come out when you're ready. Careful when you step down." She finally said, popping her head in.

I slid off the gurney and pulled out my hair elastic, watching as a few bits of glass fell onto the ambulance floor. When I exited I squinted as I was met with a few camera flashes. A pushy brunette immediately pulled up to my side, beckoning for her camera crew to follow her.

"How are you fairing?" She asked, her darkly drawn on eyebrows feigning intense concern.

"Fine." I offered plainly.

"Any word on what happened?" She questioned, shoving the microphone closer to my face.

"No."

"Do you feel as though this was a targeted occurrence?"

"We'll find out." I replied distractedly as I looked around, my head starting to pound with all of the commotion.

I walked away as the reporter tried to probe me for more information, following an officer as he walked inside 221. I stopped in front of the door to Mrs. Hudson's flat, relieved to realize that it appeared undamaged and that she hadn't yet returned after leaving 221B in a huff. I drifted back into my flat, grateful to see that everyone had already cleared out, likely to be tending to the buildings neighboring ours. I closed my curtains, even though there weren't any windows behind them. I stared blankly at my fig tree as it laid on its side in front of the fireplace before tilting it back into place. I immediately stripped myself of my clothing to jump into the shower, not even looking in the mirror. I was surprisingly calm, no longer feeling tearful or panicked, just eager to return to normalcy as quickly as possible.

I sat on the floor of the shower for a long time as I let the hot water pour over me, massaging the sore spot on my forehead and hoping that my father would be very out of tune with the news of London. I wasn't about to personally inform him of this "accident" anytime soon. He'd likely insist on paying for me to go back to therapy, which I'd tried before but gave up on quickly. After stepping out of the shower I finally faced the mirror and took in my appearance. I didn't look as worse for wear as I had anticipated. Though my lip was cut it wasn't too swollen, and my forehead only looked slightly tender above my brow. I threw on a black skirt and a black jumper as the weather was unseasonably cold again. I had no plans to venture outside, but had to account for the major draft my flat was now presented with.

I frowned as I dug through drawers, finally finding my headphones which I chucked on. I cranked some music up until it masked the intensifying commotion outside. I rolled up my sleeves and grabbed a broom, feeling as though I was floating in a sort of dream state while I focused on sweeping up the glass and debris lightly coating my hardwood floor. I wasn't certain how long I tended to this, but the ultra focused tunnel vision I had in the moment made it impossible to tell. I didn't stop until I was obsessively certain that every scrap had been accounted for.

I let myself fall back onto my bed and stared at the ceiling, removing my headphones and listening to the blasts of fire hoses, sirens, worried voices, and horns honking as stubborn Londoners still wanted to drive down Baker Street. I turned my head as the beam of light on my far wall was eclipsed, realizing that someone outside was hammering something over the space where my window should be. I closed my eyes and mentally blocked out all of the outside noise, willing myself to shut down and sleep away as much of the afternoon ahead of me as I could.

x

I reckoned I had slept for a few hours, realizing that I awoke in the same unrelaxed position I had fallen asleep in. The throbbing in my head was now nearly nonexistent, which I was thankful for. I sat up, closed my eyes and tuned into my senses to hear if the racket outside had lessened. It hadn't. Less sirens, but more voices. I sat in front of my nightstand, turning on an old lamp that cast a mellow, orange glow throughout the room. I ran a hand over my warm cheeks and eyes that were slightly puffy from sleep. My hair was especially voluminous after sleeping on it following a shower. I checked my mobile and realized I had received a few concerned texts from close friends and an old boyfriend after they had apparently seen me on the news. I responded to most of them and thankfully noticed nothing from my father, though I still decided to give him a routine phone call.

"Evelyn?"

"Hi, Dad. All right?"

"Doing well enough. I recently joined a book club."

"Do you speak enough French for that?" I smiled slightly.

"I suppose I don't." He responded, and I was able to hear the smile in his voice as well.

"What do you think I should make for dinner tonight?" I asked, realizing it was already after five. "Something old, something new?"

"Something British."

"Getting the potatoes out now, then."

"Atta girl. How's everything in London?" He inquired.

"It's… London." I sighed.

We continued catching up as I preheated the oven and grabbed ingredients, saying goodbye and feeling as though the conversation was a comforting breath of fresh air. I was reminded that the world was much larger than this morning. I took my time and carefully assembled a vegetarian shepherd's pie after preparing the required vegetables, finding a sense of zen in being able to focus on creating something, _anything_. Even though it had been a long day, my appetite was lacking. I analyzed my sofa for glass shards once more and sat, staring at the now clean floor as I ate in contemplative silence. I put my ear to the front door after doing the dishes, making sure all was mostly quiet in the hallway. I slid on some heavy black loafers and decided to head upstairs to make sure that all was as well as it could be in 221B.

I walked up the stairs and stuck my hand out to turn the doorknob, but took a small, startled step backwards when the door opened from the other side. Before me was a sharply dressed middle aged man with a smug but friendly enough grin.

"Hello." I offered.

"Mycroft Holmes." He stated, reaching out a hand. I shook it firmly, trying to remember if Sherlock had ever mentioned a Mycroft.

"Evelyn Bennett."

"I know," He said confidently, stepping to the side and gesturing for me to join him in the boys' flat, "I read the blog."

I noticed that Sherlock was seated in his armchair, the floor beneath him still littered with glass, paper, and breakfast pastries. He looked completely normal and unperturbed, wearing a plum colored shirt and focusing all of his attention on plucking the strings of his violin. I wasn't totally convinced he was even aware of my presence.

"My brother assured me that you're both well?" Mycroft questioned, staring at a croissant as he squished part of it with his expensive looking leather shoe. I took a mental note of the new information: _Sherlock has a brother and plays the violin_.

"Yes," I responded a bit too quickly, "any news on what actually happened?" I asked, kicking aside a few papers as I leaned against John's chair.

"Gas leak, apparently." Sherlock offered with the pluck of a string as Mycroft nodded. I frowned slightly as I turned the idea over in my head. It made sense, sure, but something about that answer didn't totally satisfy me.

"Very unlucky. Especially after just making a home for yourself." Mycroft said, clasping his hands together behind his back.

"I suppose I'd prefer for it to happen whilst I'm still in a state of upheaval. I think I'd be more vexed if I were completely settled." I replied, staring at the floor as I tried to make out the faint ink on a note under my shoe. "Did you get roped into going outside too?"

"No." Sherlock grinned to himself, plucking two strings this time.

"I dare say at this point Sherlock has developed a reputation amongst all medical personnel and law enforcement within the greater London area. I believe they may want to deal with him even less than he does with them, which is saying a great deal." Mycroft chuckled as Sherlock stared blankly across the room.

"Do you know if it's just buildings that received the brunt of the damage?" I asked, fearing the worst for the residents in our neighborhood and thinking about the many older diners I saw at Speedy's that morning.

"Yes-yes-yes," Mycroft waved in dismissal as I felt myself finally relax, "it appears there were no injuries greater than a scraped knee or split lip." He finished with a knowing smirk. I nodded as I let myself smile as well, though I couldn't feel the expression reach my eyes just yet.

"Thanks. I've been in the dark all day. I'm grateful someone has answers." I replied while lightly tugging at a loose thread on John's chair.

"Ah, and he often possesses too many of them." Sherlock remarked, still not looking up from his violin.

"I work for the British Government," Mycroft clarified, raising his chin and staring into the dark London sky, "Sherlock may resent my… ever being in the know, but he does benefit from it, as much as he'd loathe to admit."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Mycroft continued, "Speaking of benefiting from one another, I will be so bold as to confess that presently you could be of great aid and service to me-"

"No." Sherlock interjected.

"And the _nation. _Your skills are called for. There's no need to be obstinate before I've even asked-"

"Butter me up all you'd like, but I've been busy." Sherlock stated, though Mycroft didn't seem any less determined. I knew Sherlock was lying, but wondered why as I looked between him and the wall he'd shot up out of boredom that morning. He caught my gaze before dropping it and plucked another tune.

"Too busy? _Really_?" Mycroft inquired with a tilted head, "Didn't realize such a threshold existed for you, Sherlock."

"You're presenting a case?" I probed, crossing my arms.

"I'm presenting a case." Mycroft confirmed, picking up a folder and drumming his fingers against it.

"Don't want it. Can't do it." Sherlock glared at the ceiling.

I heard a door open and close in the distance followed by footsteps rapidly ascending the stairs. I found myself tensing inwardly, even though I of course had a strong inclination as to who it was. The door whipped open, and I watched as John's panicked eyes swept across the room.

"Hi, John." I said plainly. Sherlock gave a small wave with his violin bow.

John's mouth was agape as he ran a tense hand through his hair before turning his attention to us, "Are you okay?"

I shrugged as he took a few steps closer.

"Evelyn, I saw a clip of you on the news. Holy…" He said, looking around the room again before inquiring once more as he grabbed both of my arms and asked slowly, "You're all right?"

"We're fine."

"It was just a gas leak." Sherlock shrugged.

"Hello, John." Mycroft smiled and waved.

"Yeah, hi." John said through an exhale before the room fell into a few seconds of silence.

"Well… how was your date?" I asked.

"Standard." John huffed, walking over to the destroyed windows and absentmindedly rubbing the back of his neck.

"Sarah's well then?" Sherlock asked as John rolled his eyes in response.

"There are more pressing matters." He said with a few ounces of pointed sass as he motioned around the room.

"How right you are, John, such as…" Mycroft took advantage of the conversational segue and flipped open the folder he was holding, reading, "Andrew West, known as 'Westie' to his friends." I walked over to Mycroft's side to glimpse the inside of the folder as he continued on, "A civil servant, found dead on the tracks at Battersea Station this morning with his head smashed in."

I hadn't realized I'd made a face as I looked at one of the crime scene photos, only becoming self aware when John gave a snort of laughter. I couldn't help but reciprocate it for a moment, trying to suppress anymore insensitive giggles and feeling guilty before I put a hand in front of his face, "And it's not considered suicide?" I questioned, reverence for the situation returning as I flipped through more pictures from the scene.

"The kicker is that The Ministry of Defense is working on a new missile defense system; the Bruce-Partington Program, it's called."

"And?" Sherlock asked impatiently.

"The plans for it were on a memory stick." Mycroft continued as John chortled and Sherlock looked amused.

"Clever." John scoffed.

"It's not the only copy, but it _is_ missing."

"It's secret, yes? Sensitive?" Sherlock asked, letting his head fall back.

"Oh, of course," Mycroft stated with a one handed shrug, "and we believe West to have taken it. You can imagine what would happen if this piece of technology were to fall into the wrong hands."

Sherlock stood up, his interest levels and emotions unable to be read. He bent down and picked up a brioche bun, carefully flipping it round in his long fingers as the gears in his head turned. We all watched curiously as we waited on a serious response, only for Sherlock to suddenly hurl the pastry out of the glassless window.

"For God's sake." John exasperatedly said, giving up and walking into the kitchen to fill up a cup with tap water.

"Just felt the urge, really."

"This isn't just a request, Sherlock." Mycroft declared.

"No?" He asked sarcastically.

Mycroft tugged at the bottom of his suit jacket and inhaled deeply, walking to the front door. "No," He returned commandingly, "it's not. I don't want to hover. Don't make me." Sherlock's glare intensified as Mycroft stepped across the threshold onto the top step. "Until next time, Evelyn. John. Good luck with this one." He finished with a quick wave and a glance in Sherlock's direction. I gathered that by "this one" he meant his brother, not the case.

"Night." I smiled as widely as my lip would allow and John waved back whilst chugging his glass of water.

"You lied. Why?" I asked once Mycroft had left, walking past Sherlock and over to the windows, sticking my head out and peering into the starless night. I blinked in surprise as another pastry was thrown and whooshed over my head. John and I exchanged glances as we both realized brothers would always be brothers, regardless of age or government position, apparently.

"Sibling rivalry." John stated while shaking his head, picking up the croissant Mycroft had half squashed. He gave me an apologetic look, even though the breakfast items I'd purchased earlier had transcended being edible, before hurling it out of the window. I looked between them before finding a jam doughnut and tossing it into oblivion (or, more likely, onto a neighbor's rooftop).

"As an unfortunate only child, I can't help but think I would have been better off with a healthy dose of competition at home. What does Mycroft do, anyways?" I inquired, kicking debris aside as I searched for another sweet projectile.

"The more appropriate question," Sherlock grunted as he unearthed a pain au chocolat and handed it to me, "is what doesn't he do."

"Sherlock says 'he _is _the government.'" John replied with air quotes as I chucked the pastry as hard as I physically could, brushing my hands together and genuinely smiling afterwards. I added another mental note after the Mycroft and violin tidbits: _throwing a stale and grimy dessert into the ether, though not a sustainable form of therapy, is a form of therapy nonetheless._

"Don't think we'll be getting more breakfast from Speedy's anytime soon," John grimaced, "Say, did you watch the news?"

"I didn't have to, John, it's been live outside of 221C for hours." My comment elicited a laugh from Sherlock.

"Yeah, but… The studios, their edits. They're kind of using you, you know." John said hesitantly.

"Really?" I asked with raised brows. I assumed they had just included my clip as it was, though my relationship with the news outlets at this point was troubled and complex. I was also certain I didn't curry any favors by being so short with the reporter earlier that day.

"I mean, it wasn't _that_ bad," John tried to assure me, "they just mentioned your name, and the museum, and… everything."

"Oh god," I frustratedly sighed as I took a seat in a dining room table chair, "I can't say I didn't expect it. As long as I'm not named in any headlines. That's all I can ask for at this point…" I trailed off quietly, trying to not think about the media coverage, pressing my palms over my eyelids in a physical attempt to push any looming negative thoughts away. I was pleasantly surprised to realize I was hardly capable of feeling more upset or anxious after the events of that day. I was oddly accepting. _What harm could anything do to me at this point? _I thought. Especially the newspapers or BBC. I removed my hands from my face when I heard a phone ring, opening my eyes as Sherlock whipped his mobile out of his pocket.

"Sherlock Holmes." He stated brusquely. I watched as his expression shifted, growing more curious and intense, "Of course. How could I refuse?" He grinned victoriously (though with a certain hint of darkness) and made quick strides towards the door. I stood up, though John and I didn't immediately follow.

"What's going on?" I asked.

"That was Lestrade."

"He's an investigator with New Scotland Yard," John added to fill me in, "he's asking for you?"

"Yes," Sherlock said with a hand on the doorknob, pausing for a few awkward seconds before adding, "I don't have to go alone, you know. I don't fancy catching a cab either." I tried to hide my excitement as John and I followed him down the stairs.

I reached into my flat to grab a light jacket, keys, and my wallet as I heard Mrs. Hudson's flat door open.

"Heavens. Strange day, wasn't it?"

"That's an accurate description." I said, pulling the jacket sleeves over my arms as I stepped back into the hallway, "Your flat's in good shape, I take it?"

"Not a hair out of place. Well, aside from the hairs that are quite normally out of place." She laughed and took a sip of wine. I found it amusing that she didn't seem at all concerned with the state of things. Rather, I assumed she would be enthusiastic about the prospect of us receiving new windows and a bit of a facelift at no cost to any of us.

"We're on our way to Scotland Yard." Sherlock explained, tapping a foot.

"And if you want to enter our flat, just… actually, don't enter our flat, Mrs. H. Better to just wait." John added with a nod and forced grin.

"Whatever you say, dear. Do see if you can get some of those randoms outside to clear away." She stated before closing the door with a wistful grin.

I braced myself and stood as close to John's back as I could as we pushed open the front door and made our way onto Baker Street. The crowds had settled down a tinge, but there were still plenty of first responders tending to the damage and keeping the area secure. The officer stationed in front of our building gave us a polite nod as we passed. Sherlock's strides were so long and brisk that I had to take two quick steps for each one of his. In my attempt to keep my gaze averted I nearly ran into him as we stopped in front of my car.

"Sorry," I mumbled, unlocking the doors so we could all pile in. There was a very light layer of dust or ash on the vehicle but no damage.

"John, you've finally been promoted to the front seat. How exciting." I jested sarcastically as John took a seat next to me.

"I've earned it today."

"Sleeping on Sarah's sofa? Strenuous." Sherlock remarked, setting John off on a tangent about 'stress'. I tuned out their bickering as I concentrated on navigating us out of the hubbub congesting the stretch of city blocks surrounding ours.

"I'm driving to _New_ Scotland Yard, right?" I interjected as I waved at the officer that helped shift people and roadblocks to guide us out of the area.

"Yeah, just head towards Big Ben." John replied, dropping the needless argument.

"I assume this call means you'll no longer be plagued with boredom?" I asked, looking at Sherlock in the mirror. I watched as he rubbed his lapel between his fingers and stared at the buildings that flitted past his window.

"I could very well be bored while pursuing a case, but at least I won't be bored in the flat. It's dependent on complexity, as always."

"If he's calling you in at this hour it's bound to be good." John yawned.

"Did Lestrade give you any specifics?" I inquired, glancing again in the rearview as Sherlock shook his head, "no." I did a surprised double take when I realized he was halfway through unbuttoning his shirt.

I turned to John with an incredulous look, "Is this normal?"

John peered into the backseat and made a noise of disbelief as Sherlock pulled a tightly folded white shirt out of his coat pocket. "You couldn't have done this before we left?"

"Does it matter?"

"After the day we've had, honestly, no." I replied, rolling down my window for some fresh air as we began driving past the luscious green mass that was Hyde Park.

"Er- hello, it's cold?" Sherlock protested.

"Not to step on your toes, detective, but using _my _powers of observation, I observe that you don't have a shirt on. I suspect the weather wouldn't be an issue if you were fully clothed." I replied, refusing to crank up the window as John chuckled. Sherlock remained wordless but faintly smiled to himself as he changed into the white top and pulled his coat back on.

We weaved through traffic and passed by historical Westminster landmarks, judging the rowdy university aged kids stumbling around outside of the pubs, kicking traffic cones, and yelling for the sake of yelling. As we neared New Scotland Yard, John pointed me in the direction of a quiet parking garage. Even though it was later in the evening, on street parking was always a trying task within any sort of immediate radius of Big Ben.

"Eight quid for an _hour_? Those bastards…" John mumbled as he began to dig around in his pocket for preemptive payment.

"Don't worry about it," I remarked as I grabbed a ticket, "just surprise me with a coffee one of these mornings… Or two, if we're here for awhile."

I surveyed the dark garage as I slowly pulled into a spot, looking slightly askance at the uncomfortably blue toned overhead lights as they flickered.

"Ominous place you've led us to." I observed.

"Seems quite on brand for my year thus far." John grimaced.

Sherlock began snapping his fingers impatiently, "Eight pounds an hour." He sang before stepping out, slamming his door, and swiftly walking in the direction of the River Thames. John sighed as he whipped off his seatbelt and leapt to catch up. In my haste to follow, the contents of my shallow coat pocket spilled out into the car and onto the pavement. I groaned as I got on my knees to grab my keys that had fallen under the vehicle and scooped loose coins off of the seat.

I brushed a few waves out of my eyes as I fully stood up and turned towards the car park exit, Sherlock and John out of sight and well on their hurried way to New Scotland Yard. I walked as briskly as I could to catch up, planning on waiting outside with my lack of clearance if they made it there before I did. I breathed in deeply as I stepped nearer to the exit of the concrete structure, appreciating more refreshing air that didn't smell of oil and rubber. I admired the glistening river and jolted slightly as someone stepped in front of me at the threshold of the car park's exit. It was a middle aged man with black hair and a bottle of something clutched in his ring adorned hand. At a glance he looked put together, but upon a few more seconds of taking in his appearance I noticed specks of grime on his glasses and how poorly his suit fit his frame. Something about him was uncanny, even aside from the unwelcomed surprise of him blocking my path.

"Excuse me," I said, walking to his left and taking a step back with a glare as he blocked me again.

"Where d'you fink you're goin'?" He asked through a thick cockney accent, leaning an elbow against the side of the entry.

"That clearly doesn't concern you." I replied, not making eye contact.

"Oh, no plans then? D'you want some?" He breathily asked, leaning closer as I took an aggressive step back.

"What do you think?"

"I fink… we should go back to your car and get out of here." I inwardly cursed as he pointed towards the few vehicles in the lot, becoming very aware that he was in a position to do something destructive to my car (and/or others') if I left.

"Not very tempting as that's not even my car." I lied, tapping my foot out of growing anxiety and eagerness to escape the situation.

He took off his glasses and squinted, "Then what are you doin' in here?"

"Once again, doesn't concern you." I said, ducking under the arm he had leaning against the wall. I walked quickly without looking back, nervous to now see that there wasn't anyone hanging out on this block during the evening hour, very opposite from the daytime. I exhaled sharply as I heard his footsteps behind me.

"Oy!"

"Bold of you when Scotland Yard is right there." I said sharply before he had a chance to say anything else. He grabbed my wrist and I whipped it away, picking up the pace.

"Conversating isn't illegal, love." He sneered.

"That's not even a word."

"What did you say to me?" He belligerently asked. I winced as he grabbed and pulled my bandaged upper arm this time, shoving me against the trunk of a nearby tree.

"Conversating isn't a word." I repeated, giving him a hard shove with my other hand.

"Fink you can lay a hand on me, do you?" He asked loudly, grabbing a fistful of fabric on the back of my coat and pulling me backwards again after I'd taken a few steps. I fought to fully be able to turn around, smacking him across the face and sending his glasses flying as he held his cheek and stumbled. I stared in near wonder at my stinging hand for a moment, surprised but incredibly pleased with myself for standing my ground. I turned to start running but startled when I saw another figure emerge from the street, instinctively closing my eyes before hearing a few heavy thumps and the smash of a glass bottle on the pavement. When I opened my eyes, Sherlock was standing next to me and running a hand through his now marginally unkempt hair. I looked between him and the creep, who was now lying flat and unconscious on the ground.

Sherlock quickly placed a guiding hand on the small of my back and began to push me quite forcefully in the direction of the police station, though I took a few stumbling steps as my head remained turned towards the man lying pathetically under the tree. When I looked at Sherlock he appeared thoroughly agitated, breathing heavily and unblinkingly glaring in the direction we were walking in. I assumed he was upset about the hold up interfering with his work.

"Sorry. You didn't have to come back. I was just planning on waiting outside." I apologized.

"What?" He nearly spat, still glaring at the street laid out in front of us, "Don't be ridiculous."

"I'm not."

"You are." He pushed for us to walk even faster.

"How so?"

"You may think that I'm void of emotion or- or a conscience-"

"I mean, you've said so yourself in a few more words than that."

"Ah yes, unbothered and comfortable to sit idly by while you're physically and verbally harassed in a car park." He finally looked away from the street and at me.

"I'd like to think I held my own." I shrugged, though my knees were still shaking from the confrontation.

"That _was _a fine slap… and I always appreciate a grammatical correction." He commended, giving me some credit.

"How long were you watching this play out?" I asked with knitted brows.

"Do you think I was observing from the opposite tree with popcorn?" He rolled his eyes and I cracked a smile. "Why are you smiling?"

"Thanks, Sherlock," I said earnestly, giving him a sideways glance, "even though I had it covered."

He shook his head and shakily sighed. He allowed himself to relax, slowing our pace as he finally removed the guiding hand from my back. "That was some necessary catharsis, however nonessential I was." He said, holding his hand up and rotating it a bit under the glow of a street lamp. "Knee to the stomach, palms to the ears, fist to the temple..."

"Well, I'm happy you were around." I concluded, my cheeks betraying me and growing slightly pink at the simple sincerity of the statement. "John's at Scotland Yard?"

"No, he went for a quick trip 'round on The Eye, actually." Sherlock said sarcastically, nodding towards the ferris wheel across the river.

"All right, all right. That's fair." I laughed, embracing the comfortable silence that followed while taking in the spectacles and charmingly lit architecture that lined the Thames. We made it to the station moments later, and I followed Sherlock through multiple hallways and doors. We passed by mostly deserted cubicles, though he received and returned a couple of mild glares from the cubicles that weren't.

"You're popular." I muttered as we turned a corner.

"Clearly." He leaned over and mumbled in return.

I pressed my warm palms onto my cold cheeks as we entered through the final door, smiling when I spotted John.

"Get sidetracked?" He asked.

"You could say that." I replied, running a hand through my wind whipped hair, "Inspector Lestrade?" I asked a rather stern looking man, though he cracked a pleasant smile when he stuck a hand out.

"Yeah, call me Greg if you're feeling informal. Evelyn?"

"Yes. Just the designated driver, really." I grinned politely in return.

"All right, Sherlock?" He asked, though Sherlock just let his head loll to the side as he waited for a brief. Lestrade clapped his hands once and lightly ground his palms together before continuing, "Yeah, well… You like funny cases, don't you? The surprising ones?"

"Obviously."

"Then this should tickle your fancy. Follow me, you lot." Lestrade said, pointing a finger towards what I assumed to be his office as we tailed him.

"That explosion?" He prompted after closing the door, sitting back in a desk chair and crossing his arms.

"The gas leak, yes, go on."

"No, no," He said with raised brows, clearly pleased to provide information to Sherlock that Sherlock didn't already have, "made to _look _like one."

"What?" John asked in shock.

"Damn." I said, sounding nearly impressed as my eyes widened at the truth of the situation. I couldn't say I was surprised. I'd had a pit in my stomach all day, and though the thought of someone planting a bomb outside of our building was enough to make me want to hightail it to France to live with my father, the pit in my stomach seemed to finally dissolve. Of course it was another bomb smeared onto the span of my life, but this time I felt as though we were on track to… something. I looked between the three of them and felt a sense of promise, following Sherlock's gaze to the envelope addressed to him on Lestrade's desk.

I felt my heart racing as I softly urged, "What are you waiting for?"

He looked dubious as he gingerly picked up the white paper, "Is it-"

"We ran some tests. It won't bite." Lestrade assured.

Sherlock pinched two corners and examined the parcel closely as he walked across the room towards a lamp, holding it above the light and leaning in closer.

"Nice stationary. Bohemian." He noted of his name scrolled on the envelope.

"What?" Lestrade quipped.

"From the Czech Republic. No fingerprints?"

"Nope."

"She used a fountain pen. A Parker Duofold. Iridium nib." He enlightened us further. I rested my chin on my fist in intrigue, and would have been content to listen to his observational ramblings well into dawn. Sherlock finally walked back to Lestrade's desk and swiftly ripped open the envelope with a letter opener, his mouth falling open in disbelief. He delicately reached in and pulled out a pink mobile phone.

"I know that phone," John remarked in wonder, "that's the pink phone!"

"What, from the Study in Pink?" Lestrade questioned as my mouth opened in recognition as well.

"Well, obviously it's not the same phone but it's meant to look like-" He paused, "You read the blog?"

Lestrade looked at Sherlock incredulously, "'Course I read his blog! We all do. Do you really not know that the earth goes around the sun?"

I muffled my laughter in my jumper sleeve as Sherlock tugged at his shirt collar in mild annoyance, shooting a dirty look in John's direction.

"Some entries do read as though you've forgotten their public." I said, holding back anymore giggles.

John tilted his head and grinned in comedic displeasure.

"I have to admit, John, my favorite entry is the one titled 'How'." I said in a serious tone as Lestrade snickered in recognition.

"'How do I delete this?'" Lestrade quoted, grinning as he watched John cringe.

"To be fair," he defended with a finger in the air, "deletion is not as self explanatory as you'd imagine."

We all turned our attention back to Sherlock as the phone had turned on, alerting us that there was one new message. When played it was just the ever familiar beeps of the Greenwich Time Signal.

"Riveting." John remarked, stretching his arms as he leaned back into a chair, though Sherlock's eyes widened at a new discovery.

"What?" I asked as Lestrade walked over to his side, squinting at whatever was on the screen.

"Load of help _this _is." He shook his head, "What are they playing at?"

I grew nervous as I watched Sherlock's concern grow by the second. He nearly hesitated in turning the phone towards John and I, lowering it and running a hand through his hair before raising it for our viewing pleasure. Once I saw the screen it was as though I could feel my heart beating in my ears. I couldn't find any words. I heard John swear next to me as he stepped closer to the phone, looking as horrified and perplexed as I felt.

"Come on then, what am I missing?" Lestrade annoyedly questioned.

"That's a picture of my flat," I said slowly, unable to remove my eyes from the picture, "The windows are boarded up, that was taken today." I noticed as my heart beat faster and I felt as though I was on the cusp of dissociating. Nothing in my flat looked out of order, which almost made it more upsetting.

"It's a warning." Sherlock stated, making intense eye contact.

"How do you know?" I asked, trying to mask the desperation in my voice.

"Some secret societies used to send dried melon seeds, orange pips, things like that. Five pips of the Greenwich Time Signal. They're warning us it's gonna happen again."

I clenched my fists together and let my nails dig into my palms, reminding myself to stay grounded. I immediately thought of my cat, though felt some sort of strange assurance that no harm was going to be brought upon him tonight. I felt a reassuring hand on my arm and turned to see John, though the look in his eyes was far from reassuring. I had a feeling mine held the same tense worry.

"What are they warning us is going to happen again?" John asked fearfully as we hurried out of the room. I heard Lestrade stumbling behind me as we broke into a light jog.

"What do you think?" Sherlock nearly shouted as he walked backwards, slapping an ID card onto a strip next to the door.

"Just didn't want to believe it." John said with a nervous hand on his stomach. "You're staying with us tonight, Evelyn. Or with Mrs. Hudson, but I'm not sure what use she'd be after happy hour. She's a tough old thing, but you know what I mean." John trailed off, already out of breath as we'd picked up the pace.

"Since we're carpooling with you," I asked Lestrade over my shoulder, "do I have to pay the car park toll?"

"That's not how that works… but no, just floor it this time. I'll take care of it later." He huffed as we ran through the last corridor before stepping back out into the brisk London night.


	9. Chapter 9

Hi! Thank you endlessly for reading and supporting this story. Love you loads!

x

As we neared the car park once again, we allowed our deliberate jog to become more leisurely for John's benefit. I very well supposed the thought of sprinting along the Thames from Scotland Yard in the cover of darkness and in the company of investigators would sound grand on paper, though I quickly realized the reality was laced with a hint of cringe and a dash of embarrassment. A born and bred Londoner, it was ingrained in me to blend in, to not make eye contact on the tube, and to not draw any attention on the street.

Sherlock was on a call with Mrs. Hudson, ensuring that she was all right while also inquiring as to whether or not she had witnessed anything peculiar. I squinted as someone whistled from what appeared to be a pile of rubbish bags, but clicked my tongue in annoyance as the man Sherlock had knocked unconscious emerged from a nearby alleyway, a hand cradling one of his cheeks as he stumbled our way.

"Ah, back again-" The man started in a ranting tone before Sherlock hung up the phone and swiftly kicked up a foot to the man's chest to push him into the rubbish sacks.

"What the hell, Sherlock?" John huffed.

"Did I miss something?" Lestrade asked incredulously.

"Warranted vigilantism, trust me." I assured them as Sherlock adjusted his lapels before pointing at me over his shoulder in a gesture of agreement.

I jogged the final distance to the car, realizing how badly my hands were shaking as I grabbed for my keys, hastily starting the car before the men piled in. Sherlock reclaimed his usual spot in shotgun, grabbing the handle on the bottom of his seat and pushing himself back into John's knees.

"No you don't." Said John, fully prepared this time as he braced both hands on the back and pushed it back into place.

"Shotgun privileges can be revoked." I offered distractedly as I whipped out of the parking spot. I made unsure eye contact with Lestrade in the rearview as I slowed past the paying station, only for him to shake his head and give the side of the driver's seat a reassuring punch.

"I'll buy a _monthly_ pass next time, I promise."

"Yeah, yeah…" He shook his head but reluctantly smiled to himself.

"Any new alerts?" John asked. Sherlock shook his head without checking, though he agitatedly flexed the hand that was resting on his thigh.

I fidgeted and tapped my fingers anxiously on the wheel, rolling my window down as we neared St. James park.

"Hey, I know that was violating but everything's going to be all right." John leaned forward and offered reassuringly, though he sounded unsure himself, "You're brave, you're witty, and you're not alone." He assured, holding up three fingers after listing the affirmations.

I looked at him appreciatively, "Thanks, John, but I'm fine, really." I shifted in my seat as Sherlock gave me a skeptical look, "Okay, I'm not; it's just if anything happened to my cat I _am _moving to France."

"The cat will be fine," Sherlock crossed his arms, "the image they sent serves as enough of a warning, enough of a threat. Don't forget they bombed us this morning-"

"Totally slipped my mind." I interjected sarcastically.

"Animal abuse would, quite literally, be overkill at this point in the game. They're obviously calculated and are taking great care in meaningfully stringing us along," Sherlock continued, turning the mobile phone over in his fingers, "They possess too much taste for such a cheap and dramatic move in whatever narrative they're planning on playing out."

I didn't respond immediately, but shot him a prolonged glance as I merged into a different lane. A sense of awe and comfort briefly but thoroughly washed over me as I surveyed the detective.

"A bomb isn't dramatic enough?" I asked, smirking ever so slightly so he knew I found a sort of dark humor in the statement.

"What's it like sharing a building with these two anyways?" Lestrade inquired, interrupting my thoughts, "Miserable?"

"If you only knew." I replied.

"I'm thankful I don't."

"I will say, I'm never _not _surprised."

"What, ballistics at breakfast time not your cup of tea?" John jested in an entirely pointed and annoyed tone.

"Should I be concerned I've just mentally deemed that as the least disturbing part of my day? Don't even worry about it." I stated with a sigh as Lestrade opened his mouth to inquire. He shut it and nodded.

"Holy hell, that was this morning." John groaned, pressing himself back into his seat with wide eyes. "That feels like last week."

I yawned as I turned the distant feeling breakfast over in my head, squinting an eye in pain as a pang went through the cut on my lip I had nearly forgotten about. I pressed my tongue against the small wound as London's nightlife passed us by. I watched as a gaggle of women in fancy dresses laughed obnoxiously as they had their arms supportively laced around a wobbly friend. I furrowed my brows as I tried to imagine feeling as carefree as they looked, and felt hollow when I realized I wasn't sure if I was capable of feeling entirely untroubled. I froze as I made eye contact with Sherlock, pulling the tip of my tongue back into my mouth and wiping my lip with the back of my hand.

The rest of the drive was filled with Lestrade probing for more 221 Baker St. stories and playful dirt on Sherlock. I was happy to fill him in, but didn't seem to relish in it as much as John, who went on a minutes long tangent about sleep schedules and curious kitchen smells as Sherlock remained in his head, staring out of the window. When we arrived, he protested as I parked a block and a half down from our building.

"I'm not taking any chances." I shrugged as I walked backwards, watching until the men were all out of the car before locking the doors and hurriedly jogging towards our front door. Sherlock leapt in front of me to open it and headed in first, his coat catching the air behind him as he briskly made his way down the hallway.

"Mrs. Hudson!" He yelled, jingling his keys. "You're alive, yes?"

"Still here." She remarked from behind her door, stepping out after I heard her undo multiple locks.

"Glad to hear it." I said, giving her a one armed hug that she lovingly returned. I held my breath as Sherlock gently ran his palm over the front of my door.

"I haven't seen your place since you moved in, Evelyn." Mrs. Hudson remarked, removing her arm from my side and putting both hands on her hips.

"How about we wait until I have natural light again," I offered with a slight frown as I joined the men in front of the entrance to my flat, "Though I suppose it's always been gloomy regardless."

John and I exchanged dubious looks as the lock clicked and the door swung open. I sighed as I heard my cat jump off of something in my bedroom and crouched down as he trotted towards us.

"Told you." Sherlock stated.

"You think someone picked the lock?" I asked, repressing waves of paranoia.

"Possibly…"

I scooped up the cat before stepping inside my home and flipping on a light, though I didn't get far before I stopped in my tracks and tilted my head.

"Those trainers aren't mine." I said curiously, stepping slowly towards the random shoes that had been placed next to my sofa, their toes pointed towards the door.

"He's a bomber, remember." John worriedly stated as I felt resistance from a hand pulling the back of my coat. Sherlock took heed of John's words for a brief moment but continued to walk towards the bizarre clue.

"I know you suggested I stay in your flat tonight, but shouldn't someone… be here? Just in case something of note happens?" I wondered.

"We'll have to draws sticks if that's the case." John grimaced, as Sherlock ever so slowly leaned down towards the shoes, placing his gloved hands on the floor as his gaze traveled over every centimeter of the trainers.

Lestrade swore in surprise and my cat jumped out of my arms as a mobile rang. Sherlock startled as well, jumping back from the shoes and taking a deep breath before removing the pink phone from his pocket. He held it up for us to see that someone was calling from a blocked number before answering and setting it to speaker.

"Hello?" Sherlock asked quietly.

My palms went clammy in discomfort as I immediately noticed whoever was on the other end was breathing as though they were crying.

"Hello s-sexy." A woman wept.

"What the-?" Mouthed Lestrade as he, John, and I glanced at each other in surprise.

"Who is this?" Sherlock continued without missing a beat.

"I've sent you a little puzzle, just to say 'hi.'" She stated between halting sobs.

"Who are you? Why are you crying?"

"I'm not crying… I'm typing… and this stupid bitch is reading it out." My eyes widened and I flattened my palms against my skirt as I felt chills run up and down my arms. Sherlock mumbled something to himself.

"What was that?" John asked.

"Nothing… It's just that I've been expecting this for some time."

"Twenty four hours to solve my puzzle, Sherlock. Or else I'm going to be so naughty." The woman finished with another cry before hanging up.

Sherlock stared at the inactive phone screen for a few more moments before setting the mobile down on my counter and staring at the floor in deep contemplation.

You could hear a pin drop before Lestrade spoke up, "You know something we don't, do you?"

"Always." Sherlock condescended as Lestrade rolled his eyes.

"You know what I mean."

"Let's bag these up. We'll bring them to Bart's in the morning." Sherlock gestured to the trainers, ignoring Lestrade as he brushed past us and headed towards his flat for an evidence bag.

I watched him disgruntedly as he made his way down the hall, finally allowing myself to stroll around my flat and ensure that everything was as I had left it.

"Please be careful." John groaned.

"I can assure you I'm not trying to die tonight, John." I replied as I opened the cupboard under my sink and crouched to scope out the dark and damp nooks and crannies.

"Er, lovely place you've got here." Lestrade noted as he hesitantly patted the pillows on the sofa.

"It's seen better days, but thanks. Need a ride whenever you're dismissed?" I asked teasingly, crossing my arms and glancing in the direction of 221B.

Lestrade shook his head and grinned, "I will remind you that he's not my boss. Have to often remind myself, really… I can catch a cab. You lot have had a long enough day."

"You're not wrong." I said as I began making my way down the hallway towards my bedroom, stopping at the threshold and peering in. I nervously picked at the skin around my nails as I stepped inside, half expecting someone to leap out of my closet or bound out from underneath my vanity.

"Oh god." I muttered to myself as I knelt down, saying a silent prayer to whomever was listening as I looked under my bed, relieved to find nothing but a stray sock.

"All right?" I jumped as Sherlock strolled in, waving a crinkly bag.

"I _was_." I said with a hand over my heart, getting off of my knees and walking over to the closet. I carefully ran my fingers over the clothing and kicked a slightly trembling leg into each corner before joining the boys back in my sitting room.

John and Lestrade were observing with crossed arms as they watched Sherlock seal the evidence bag now containing the old trainers.

"You're still here?" Sherlock asked slowly without a glance in Lestrade's direction, though it was clear who he was referring to.

"Yeah, I'm out." He said, throwing his hands up in annoyance while clearly exerting physical effort in an attempt to control his temper. He briskly walked over and shook my hand, "Evelyn. Nice to meet you."

"Likewise. See you soon, I'm sure."

"God willing. See you, John." He offered with a wave as he made quick work of leaving the flat.

"Night!" Sherlock called out, the only response being our front door slamming shut. "Rather rude." He muttered.

"We're calling it a night?" I assumed.

"For now. As I mentioned, we'll analyze these at Bart's first thing tomorrow." He stated with a pat of the bag.

"I don't think I'll be able to stop thinking about that woman." I softly stated as I stared at the wall opposite us, unable to calm my thoughts as I tried to envision a face as panicked as the voice we had heard on the phone.

"You don't have to worry about her."

"I _don't_?"

"No." He shrugged, looking at me as if I were foolish.

"Unbelievable." I mumbled, shaking my head. "What's the plan for tonight?" I asked John, turning my back to Sherlock, too tired to bicker.

"I reckon… we stick together. Play it safe. That way we're guaranteed to be on the same schedule tomorrow, with the time crunch and all…" He trailed off.

"Sounds like a plan. I'll meet you upstairs then." I stated as I headed to get ready for bed.

"Are you bringing… that?" Sherlock asked, and I turned to see he had a finger extended towards the cat.

"I was planning on letting him spend the night with Mrs. Hudson, actually. I feel like she could use the company." Cats are highly independent creatures, but after the day's intrusion I felt no comfort in leaving him alone.

I closed the door to my room and started the process of getting ready for bed. I had changed into a dark blue silk pajama set patterned with delicate stars embroidered with silver thread. I pulled my dark waves into a haphazard updo and hesitated in turning the bathroom light off, deciding it best to leave it on. After filling Mrs. Hudson in on the evening's events, I left her with the cat and all of his necessities, touched by how excited she was at the prospect of having a furry companion for the night. I also felt at ease with her flat's more elaborate lock system. I would have brought him up to 221B, but this was his designated time for mischief and I didn't entirely trust he wouldn't sneak out of a window and roam around the rooftops or chase mice through the alleyways.

I knocked lightly on the door to 221B before I let myself in, clutching a pillow as I stared at the boys in surprise.

"I didn't expect this!" I stated as I observed the sofa, now complete with sheets, a pillow and a blanket.

"The bare minimum?" John laughed, holding a broom as he swept the floor in his pajamas.

"See? Never not surprised." I repeated my statement from earlier.

"All the glass bits _should_ be out of there." Sherlock offered, referencing the couch by wagging his fingers next to it.

"I suppose I'll find out." I set my pillow onto the makeshift bed and ran downstairs to grab my broom and help.

We made quick enough work of cleaning the floor, John continuing to mourn the soiled breakfast pastries and the damaged cafe next door as we swept up the occasional leftover crumb. Sherlock made use of himself by holding a rubbish bag out for us. I ran the back of my hand across my forehead as we finished, giving John a light pat on the back.

"We can sleep a bit more soundly now." I remarked, pleased with our work but still thinking about the woman on the other line. I then realized that sleeping soundly was out of the question, though I did feel a great sense of comfort in the current setup.

"Didn't fancy you sleepwalking on broken glass. Otherwise we'd have left it." John joked, yawning.

I finally took a seat on the couch, letting my head fall back as I realized how exhausted I was, even after my long afternoon nap.

"Twenty four hours…" John said slowly, staring at the opposite wall, "Yeah, I'm not getting up before seven. I have enough faith in you, Sherlock." He tried taking a swig of water and missed his mouth as it dribbled down his chin. Sherlock and I both found an excess amount of humor in the situation with thanks to over-tiredness.

I could tell John was also suppressing laughter, though he played it off as though he was aggravated. "For f-… Knock on Sherlock's door if you need anything." He dumped what remained of his half filled glass in the sink, wiping his chin as he slumped off to bed.

Sherlock and I sat in silence for a few seconds, but both startled when my phone vibrated. I held my breath as I looked at my screen, but was relieved and grateful to see an American friend had just sent a picture of their baby. I bit my cheek and set an alarm for seven, sliding my phone a meter away and feeling resentment towards the device in the context of the day.

"You've had something on your mind since this morning and I predicted you would have brought it up by now. You haven't." Sherlock stated abruptly, turning off the main light and taking a seat on the opposite end of the couch.

My brows came together in thought, realizing that I'd worked to actively repress a nagging theory since that morning, "You're right. Though I assume that 'something' is a thought that's been entertained by both of us."

"Then you're assuming I already know the particulars of this 'something'?" Sherlock questioned, connecting two fingers underneath his chin.

"It isn't exactly obscure. In fact I'd say it's far from far fetched." I replied, scratching at a star on my pajamas.

"Pity, I felt nearly complimented." Sherlock said flatly, turning the tables on a past statement I'd made to him, causing me to break out in a smile.

"I can't help but relate the bomb from this morning to the museum and hope that they're connected, even though I don't think they are. I feel foolish, but I can't shake the notion." I confessed.

"We're on the same page then." Sherlock stated, migrating his fingers from underneath his chin to underneath his nose.

"Does that feel at all probable?"

Sherlock sighed, "I won't discount it… Though I've admittedly been comparing both occurrences all day and I've settled on the fact that the only similarity seems to be the chosen device of destruction."

"True… This case feels much more calculated; motivated by a sort of personal grievance and a- a childhood villain fantasy. I can only describe the driving forces at the museum as destruction and chaos. Nothing about _this _feels chaotic, and it feels as though the individual behind it wants credit." I frowned in contemplation.

"Mm." Sherlock nodded in agreement as he absentmindedly rubbed his cheek. "I expected you to shut down after this morning."

"So did I, initially, though I quickly realized that at this point I have everything to gain and nothing to lose." I said, leaning back on the arm of the sofa and bringing my knees to my chest, my turn to echo one of Sherlock's past statements and his turn to knowingly smile. Though he was smiling, it was almost as if sorrow flashed across his face, but I brushed it off as my mind playing tricks on me in the room's dim lighting.

"A wise sentiment." Sherlock replied softly.

"Do you plan on sleeping?" I inquired.

"Sleep," Sherlock groaned, flopping backwards, "I resent that it holds so much power." I scrunched my nose curiously at his complaint. "I'm impatiently waiting for the day scientists do away with it."

"Einstein slept ten hours a night," I shrugged, getting up to grab a glass of water from the kitchen, "How do you do it, anyways? I know how much my thoughts are prone to race while lying in bed so I'm sure yours run a marathon."

"It's worse when I'm not working a case. Just last night I was up until four reading about fungi and poisonous moss."

"Riveting."

"Not at _all_, but it satisfies a need for an intake of knowledge while being information I can mentally toss if need be…. And that need _will _arise."

"No, not the fungi." I jokingly protested while resuming my spot on the couch and pulling the blanket over my knees. "Shall we test your knowledge?"

"Try me." He grinned mischievously.

"The first use of Ganoderma Lucidum was recorded where?"

"Referred to as 'The Mushroom of Immortality'. Eastern Han Dynasty."

"Hm, extra credit there," I said with a finger on my chin, conjuring up another question,"How could a certain mushroom be of use to aspiring Athenians in fifth century BC?"

"A plate of black truffles could have been exchanged for citizenship, obviously."

"All right, I already give up. You win." I stated, letting myself fully fall back into the sofa and stare at the stray city lights and swirls of mist through the windows. "Fungi as a sleep aid, I think you might be onto something."

"Perhaps we should task our blogger with spreading the word."

"Insomniacs of London; Dr. John Watson here with a litany of mushroom facts." I said wistfully. Sherlock chuckled in response and stood, walking over to the window and lacing his fingers behind his neck as he stared into the night sky.

"Could you imagine ever leaving London?" I asked quietly.

Sherlock sighed and placed his hands on the window sill, crossing his legs as he stuck his head a few centimeters outside, "Honestly, it's pathetic; how much this city has a hold on me. Imagine _me_ in Los Angeles, or- or Sydney."

"You're right, too vibrant. You'd be like a roving British storm cloud. I don't think London could leave _you._"

"And what of your threats of moving to France? Empty?"

"Of course," I replied plainly, "I couldn't imagine myself anywhere else either, though I do love Edinburgh… If you ever have a case up there, you know whose door to knock on."

"Are you implying you wouldn't be interested in other cases?" Sherlock asked, turning around and crossing his arms as he leaned against the window frame.

"No, I am interested," I said quickly, propping myself up on an elbow and realizing that I sounded too eager, "I mean, no… Er- honestly, at the risky of sounding soppy, I haven't fully articulated how much I've enjoyed living here. This year has been… horrid, as you could imagine, but running around London and Surrey with you and John has brought me more excitement and fulfillment than my tired brain can currently formulate to say. I don't want to impose, or make you think that I'm desperate, but at this point I couldn't imagine spending my days sitting in my little corner of the basement as you two ran past my door day in and day out. Even if it's just driving you to New Scotland Yard or Edinburgh, fingers crossed-" I smirked while staring at the floor, "I'm here if you'll both have me, is all I'm trying to say." I cringed at the honesty, using all of my willpower to not belittle myself or my statement by blurting out _never mind, please just don't respond._

Sherlock stood tensely for a few moments before walking to the other side of the room. I watched him curiously before he placed his hand on a doorknob and finally opened his mouth to respond, "At this point… I don't think I'd be satisfied in us running past your door either." Before slipping inside his room.

I stared at the spot where his figure had been for a few seconds longer, fully realizing I was now making a habit of trying to snuff out unruly butterflies. I pulled the blanket under my chin, taking a calming inhale as the sheets smelled of coffee and woodsmoke. I fell asleep with a cool London breeze creeping through the windows, repressing anxieties and letting myself think of Edinburgh's gothic architecture and blossoming friendships before dreaming of poorly lit car parks.


	10. Chapter 10

Ah, I've missed this! I hope you're all doing well out there. I'm currently watching Pride and Prejudice, so… I'm content :-) Also, it is now wildly difficult for me to look at Andrew Scott and envision him as Moriarty as opposed to Hot Priest from Fleabag... **SOS**.

x

I stirred from sleep to the incessant beeping of a lorry, squinting against the hazy morning light as I checked the time on my phone. My alarm was destined to go off in a quarter of an hour so I planted my feet on the ground and rubbed my fingers across my tired eyes. I was uncertain as to whether or not I should head down to my flat to begin getting ready, or wait until the boys were up. A nagging thought was telling me that I shouldn't venture into my flat alone, but I was feeling brave (and, perhaps, witless), and, most notably, very un-caffeinated. The hardwood floor creaked softly under my feet as I stood. I folded up all of their sheets and grabbed my pillow, slowly making my way towards the front door in an effort to tread quietly. I hadn't turned the doorknob more than a millimeter before Sherlock emerged from his bedroom in pajamas and a robe.

"Morning."

"You were going down to your flat?" He asked pointedly, looking at me with a grimace that read as _you're hopeless._

"I highly doubt anyone came back, let alone has been camped out inside for the night. What's the incentive? I think we both know that I'm not the target here."

"Perhaps not, but need I remind you that your windows were blown out by a bomb to the same degree as ours? No? That's what this boils down to. You may not be _the _target, but you're in the splash zone just the same. Maybe it's a challenge for you, but try not to be so daft."

I gazed at Sherlock for a few moments before letting my hand fall from the door. "I'm not daft, so I won't say you're right, but I will admit it when I'm being stubborn."

"We have coffee here, you know." Sherlock offered, reading my mind as he strolled into the kitchen.

"Am I that predictable?" I asked, chucking my pillow back onto the couch and trailing behind him.

"Yes, though a bit less than others." He replied, randomly stopping in his tracks and turning to stare at me. My gaze shifted unsurely as I figured this was some sort of test.

"Is your head still in the fridge? I'll need to brace myself before I grab the milk." I said finally, brushing past his side.

"Most would have asked, 'Then what am I going to do now?'" Sherlock mimicked in a high pitched tone, "John included."

"You didn't answer my question."

"When would I have had an opportunity to remove it?" He rolled his eyes.

"He could have migrated to the freezer." I maintained as Sherlock reached into the fridge, not breaking eye contact with me as he deftly grabbed the milk carton.

"I should return that during our trip to Bart's… I have no further use for it."

"I'm curious as to why you thought to measure saliva coagulation in there anyway. Wouldn't the fridge fan alter the results?"

"I don't want to talk about it." Sherlock grumbled.

I grimaced as I imagined sharing a vehicle with a now days (perhaps weeks) old severed head. "Surely they don't need him back in the morgue?"

"I suppose they won't be missing it."

"Do we bury him?" I proposed, throwing Sherlock the bag of coffee beans I was standing next to.

"He was a murderer, I should add." Sherlock replied, staring at the coffee beans as though they were a foreign object, clearly used to someone else handling the brewing process.

"Doesn't change things. What's the alternative? Chucking him in the bin? Out of the question, Sherlock, and _don't _say you've done it before. I don't want to know."

"There's the Thames." He shrugged and said coldly.

"We're walking to Regent's Park at dawn. Or tonight, if we're still alive and mostly sane."

Sherlock groaned as he ground the beans, "Seems an awful lot of faff."

"You brought a head home from Bart's in a cab, I'm assuming, and have kept it in your flat; _burying_ _it_ seems an awful lot of faff?" I confirmed loudly over the noise.

"Evelyn's right, Sherlock," John said, yawning as he emerged from his room with disheveled hair and pillow lines still on his face, "If you don't bury the poor murderous bastard, we will."

"I'll dig, but I draw the line at handling him." I frowned, chucking some bread in the toaster.

"Say, since you were sleeping near the door, did you hear anything downstairs?"

"No," I said, my eyes widening slightly as I nervously asked, "Why do you ask? Did you hear something?"

"Nah, just wondering. I slept like a log." John stretched as I let myself relax. I kindly asked the universe for a limited amount of stress for the day, but knew that my request would likely not be honored.

I nodded with furrowed brows, "Is our man sitting next to any jam in there?" I asked Sherlock, who sighed as he physically drug his feet and grabbed a jar out of the fridge. I grinned as he smacked it stubbornly into my palm.

"Oy, grab the eggs too?" John asked, snickering.

"You've already seen him, John," Sherlock snapped as John and I exchanged amused glances, "I don't need to mediate for you. Get the eggs yourself."

"It's fine. Don't really want them, actually."

"Oh, aren't you amusing." Sherlock said, his words dripping with thick sarcasm.

"How honored do you feel that this man would grab something out of the fridge for you?" John asked me as he mocked Sherlock's ornery attitude, "That he would take _three_ steps across the kitchen to fetch you some jam? Chivalry is alive in 221B. The affection is palp-" Sherlock aggressively threw a dozen coffee beans in John's direction, cutting him off.

"Damn it, Sherlock! You're sweeping this time. You're sweeping for the next month, actually. I've already done my share."

Sherlock rolled his shoulders as he turned his attention back to the coffee maker, wordlessly watching it brew and drip into the pot. I spread jam on my toast as I popped more bread in for John, intrigued by a now uncharacteristically quiet Sherlock as he impatiently and messily poured our mugs of coffee. He seemed surly, though I assumed he was peeved that John found such a ripe opportunity to poke fun. We ate and drank mostly in silence, collectively realizing that this was the calm before whatever storm we were going to end up facing during the day and, most likely, into the night. Sherlock's twenty four hour cut off would come to an end at eleven.

I took a final swig of coffee and quietly declared, "I s'pose I should head down to my flat to get ready."

"Fine." Sherlock replied brusquely, instantly standing and heading towards the door. I didn't expect the hurriedness and jogged to grab my pillow.

"Thanks again, John. See you in a few." He waved in return and grinned through taking a bite of toast.

When I made it down the stairs, the door to my flat was already swung open, Sherlock hastily scoping out its contents. Inside it looked as though a poltergeist had been at work; all of my cupboards were open and couch cushions on the floor. Sherlock peeked up the chimney before making his way into my bedroom. I smirked in gratitude that he took it upon himself to ensure the safety of us and our building by making certain there were no unwelcome surprises. I was thankful I didn't have to do it alone but resentful of the fact that I had to worry about it at all.

"All's well?" I inquired as he left my room.

"No stowaways."

"I appreciate it." I said sincerely, closing a cupboard.

He didn't respond as he left my flat. I stared at my door for a few moments before locking it and jumping into the shower to clear my head for the day. If there was anything I could count on in regards to Sherlock Holmes, it was hot and cold personality shifts. I refused to allow myself to dwell, but I was left with an irrepressibly sour taste in my mouth at his frequent lack of social finesse and manners. However, as frustrating as it was, there was an overwhelming part of me that found it intriguing and, dare I say, endearing.

I threw on an oatmeal colored knit jumper and my standard pair of black jeans, pulling a black belt through the loops. I applied a small amount of makeup, making sure to cover the bruise above my brow, and finished by sweeping a balm over my quickly healing lip. I spent a bit more time getting ready, finding comfort in devoting a sliver of the morning to some form of a self care routine. Once mostly satisfied, I ventured out into the hallway and stopped in front of Mrs Hudson's door, though decided against knocking as it was still early. I figured she wouldn't mind the cat keeping her company while we were out for the day. I heard the boys' flat door open as I stepped into the main corridor, crossing my arms and leaning against the wall as they made their way down the stairs, the bag of trainers in hand.

"Ready?" John asked.

"She very clearly is." Sherlock snapped.

"Emotionally? Mentally?" John added with a comedic wince as I laughed.

"Not at all." I replied, punctuating each word as we stepped out and locked our building's door. "And yourself?"

"Absolutely not." John muttered through a toothy smile.

There were a few construction workers unsurprisingly tending to our block; their lorries the vehicles responsible for the morning's "alarm". Aside from this, the neighborhood was already beginning to have life and normalcy breathed back into it. Business people shuffled through on their way to whatever offices they belonged to, residents that still had intact flower boxes outside their windows were watering them, and a handful of dogs were being walked. Londoners were resilient people, able to bounce back and adapt quickly, though not before they allowed themselves to properly whinge about things for a day or two.

We piled into the car and I instantly felt nerves akin to those on the first day of a new school year; mild but incessant. I put the key in the ignition and shared a glance with Sherlock, wondering how he felt with 'the puzzle' resting on his shoulders. He, of course, appeared to be entirely nonchalant. I would even go so far as to say that he looked… bored.

After arriving at St Bartholomew's, I followed John and Sherlock inside, trying not to let my body language alert anyone (especially our surly detective) that I was feeling exceedingly hesitant and thoroughly out of place. We strolled down meandering hallways and through locked doors before arriving in a strikingly lit lab. I allowed myself to be distracted by equipment, specimens, labeled glass bottles, and a rainbow of colored, ambiguous liquids. While Sherlock carefully examined the trainers with gloved hands, I roamed around the perimeter of the room with my hands clasped behind my back. I felt comfort when I realized John was doing the same.

"I expected today to have more of an aura of panic." I remarked to John when I felt his presence to my right, not removing my eyes from the tincture of iodine on the backlit shelf in front of me.

"Though Sherlock's emotional deficiencies are a constant pain in the arse, this one of the few - and I mean _few - _occasions on which that can come in handy." We both turned towards the dark haired investigator. Though we spoke at a normal volume, he had zeroed in on something in the trainers' treads and was therefore entirely oblivious.

"Can you do me a favor and just confirm that you feel as useless as I do?"

"Oh yeah." He replied loudly and emphatically, drawing a genuine laugh out of me.

"Good - that's good! Here's to being worthless, John."

"I'll drink to that. Say, you want another cup of coffee? Tea?"

"Look at you, being valuable. Now I'm the odd one out," I smiled, "This morning calls for some hospital coffee, I think."

"Hospital coffee. You got it." John grinned, pivoting and heading through a nearby door.

"Hate to disturb you, but would you like a cup as well?" I inquired, walking over to Sherlock's examination table, but maintaining a healthy distance in case he decided to 'bite.' I tilted my head as he ignored my question, picking lightly at the skin on one of my fingers as I stood next to the counter, continuing to feel rather pathetic.

"I'm going to pour you some then. I'm walking… to the door." I said, drawing out my sentences and walking unhurriedly towards the exit, "Say 'no' if you don't want any, otherwise, you are getting your own cup… of mediocre coffee…" I was through the door at this point, peeking my head around it as I watched Sherlock fiddle with the microscope. I rolled my eyes as I let it fully close. The short hallway served as its own little break room of sorts, housing a counter with a sparse array of kitchen supplies and pantry ingredients.

I followed John back into the lab, setting Sherlock's coffee an arms length away from his computer screens. He finally removed his attention from the microscope and grabbed the styrofoam cup, taking a gulp of the scalding hot brew without even flinching. His focus immediately returned to the specks of dirt he was examining.

"Thank you." He finally stated flatly after a few moments, nearly stopping me in my tracks. I begrudged the fact that I felt almost overjoyed by this remark. It would be considered the bare minimum by any social standard, but coming from him it was nearly a thrill to hear. As irksome as this was, he made up for these pitfalls in other areas. I had to remind myself of how high pressure the day was as well, with all of said pressure resting almost entirely upon his shoulders.

"You're welcome." I replied simply.

"Are they going to trace the call, Sherlock?" John asked, coughing and grimacing after taking a sip of the burnt tasting drink.

"Not possible," Sherlock mumbled, "the bomber's too smart for that."

"Then what about the woman?" I inquired, leaning against his table.

"You're still going on about that, are you?" Sherlock muttered.

My eyebrows instantly came together in frustration, "She's a _human,_ and you don't need me to tell you that she was very clearly in peril. You really think that's something to so readily dismiss?"

"Consider anything dismissed if it doesn't have any leads," Sherlock said sternly, sitting up straighter, "it's a waste of time that we don't have. She's a hostage, and if these people are going about this the proper way then we'll get everything sorted when we crack the case."

I shot him a dejected glance in response, realizing that he wasn't wrong, but feeling intensely sorrowful for a woman whose wellbeing was very uncertain to us. I recognized that his perspective was valid, but made it a point to myself that I wouldn't allow his ideas and attitude to entirely snuff out any sense of empathy on my end. Balance was necessary.

"What d'you reckon they've done to her?" John persisted.

"Doesn't matter. There's nothing we can do on our end."

"I wouldn't necessarily say it doesn't matter, Sherlock." I grumbled flatly with my chin resting in my hand.

"Whatever helps you sleep at night." He said after returning to his microscope, "Someone grab me my phone."

"Where is it?" I responded, my tone unchanging.

"Jacket."

The hand I was resting my chin on fell to the counter with a smack as I shared an incredulous look with John. I could not be asked to retrieve Sherlock's mobile from the jacket he was currently wearing, so I mouthed "you" to John while tapping my fingers on the tabletop. John stood rigidly, not exercising much care as he roughly stuck a hand inside Sherlock's pocket.

"Watch it," Sherlock sassed before John nudged Sherlock with the mobile, "Any messages?"

"Why don't _you_ check _your _phone?" John groaned, only to be met with expectant silence. He sighed rather dramatically before opening the device, "There's a text from your brother."

"Mm. Delete it."

"Delete it?" John confirmed.

"Those missile plans are out of the country now. Nothing we can do about it."

"He's texted you eight times, so it must still be significant."

I walked around the table and leaned over John's shoulder, reading Mycroft's message for myself.

_RE: Bruce-Partington Plans_

_Any progress on Andrew West's death?_

"I'm not bothered," Sherlock dismissed with a wave of his hand, glancing at his computer screen that flashed _No Match_ as it had been doing since we'd arrived, "Especially when there are much more engaging matters to tend to… Andrew West stole the missile plans, tried to sell them, got his head smashed in for the effort. The end." Sherlock finished with a cheerful grin.

"Delightful." John grimaced.

"You need a walking disclaimer: do not allow this man to read your children bedtime stories." I said softly, frowning as I walked over to his computer screens.

"Correction: do not allow this man near children." John added.

"That makes him sound depraved, John. You _are_ twisted, Sherlock, but redeemably so."

"I'd rather children just not be allowed around _me. _The ideal existence, really."

John and I exchanged amused expressions before John chimed in, "You say that as though you expect us to agree. I'm afraid you're alone on that one, mate."

"You can't tell me either of you plan on having… babies." Sherlock stated, barely able to spit out the word and making a face similar to John's after he'd sipped his coffee.

"Just take comfort in the fact that neither of us would ask you to babysit." I replied. I was personally on the fence about having children. I was twenty seven years of age, single, and without any prospects. Presently, I had no desire to alter my current sense of independence by having a child within the next couple of years. A steady relationship was on my list of "hopes and dreams", yes, but not so much an infant.

"No matter the context, the words comfort and babysit can't be used in the same sentence."

"Not with you, that's for sure. If I popped 'round with my future kids the childproofing list would be a mile long. Don't open the fridge if you want to keep your innocence, don't even think about looking under the sink, oh! The beds! Can't forget those, best not to look under them either…" John listed on his until he was cut off by a message flashing across the computer screen.

_Matches Found_

_Search Complete_

"Yes!" I cheered quietly, "I don't totally know what that entails, but yes!" I wrapped a celebratory arm around John's shoulder and gave Sherlock a solid pat on the back. He glanced at me over his shoulder and straightened his coat, though my smile didn't falter.

"Does that mean we can get the hell out of here?" John said after fist pumping haphazardly.

We all turned our attention to the other side of the lab as a door opened, and a mousey, petite woman stepped into the room.

"Molly." John nodded politely.

"Hello," she waved with a shy grin, "what are we working on today then?"

"Trainers."

"Any luck?"

"Yes!" Sherlock grinned victoriously, as Molly sent a few curious glances my way.

"Hi, Molly? Evelyn Bennett." I smiled, sticking a hand out.

"Molly Hooper. Are you - er, are you seeing John?" She asked timidly.

My eyes widened as my head swivelled in John's direction, "No! No. No…" I laughed and said adamantly, instantly feeling a bit bad for overreacting while Sherlock snickered from his stool, "I mean, we're friends and he's… seeing someone. I just live in 221." I finished.

"Your arm was around him when I walked in, I just… Sorry. Romance on the brain I suppose." She tittered, clasping her hands in front of her. "I'm - oh! There he is now." Molly blushed as a brunette man just a handful of years older than me joined us in the lab. The stranger appeared shy and slightly bumbling as he hesitated in walking our way.

"Where are you going?" Molly sang, "Come over here, Jim! Jim, _this_ is Sherlock Holmes."

Jim's eyes lit up with what could only be described as casual wonder as he took in the sight of the private investigator.

"Hiya." Jim said, unblinking and grinning rather blankly before seeming to shake himself to his senses, "And?"

"John Watson." John stated, shaking the man's hand before it was my turn.

"Evelyn Bennett."

Jim's eyes seemed to grow even wider as he took in my appearance, alarming me though I tried to keep that reaction internal. Something about him did strike me as familiar, though I couldn't quite place the recognition.

"Have we met?" I ask slowly, squinting my eyes and tilting my head as he continued to shake my hand.

"Evelyn Bennett…" He stated back to me, seemingly suppressing a giggle though I couldn't be certain. "I'm sure our paths have crossed. I've done loads of I.T. work around town." He shrugged, turning his attention back to Sherlock, "Molly has told me _all _about you. Are these part of a case?" Jim asked excitedly, fluttering his fingers over the athletic shoes.

"Jim just started working upstairs, you know. Office romance." Molly interjected before Sherlock answered (though it didn't seem as though he had planned on replying anyways).

"Those are always fun." I said supportively, forcing a smile.

Molly nodded and leaned a cheek against the I.T. workers shoulder before he wrapped an arm around her and booped a finger on her nose. I tried not to pass judgement as I was just minutes into meeting the pair, but as I read the room it was clear to me I wasn't the only person fending off the urge to roll their eyes. Jim turned his attention towards Sherlock again, edging slowly closer to the detective and incapable of removing his gaze.

"Sherlock Holmes." Jim said wistfully as Sherlock annoyedly flexed a hand, "Detective. Working a case… Right now." Jim continued standing in awe as he leaned closer to Sherlock, though startled when his hand met a dish and sent it tumbling to the floor. Sherlock expelled air through his nose in frustration, lightly slamming a fist onto the countertop.

"Sorry! Silly me. Clumsy, clumsy." Jim laughed, oblivious to our displeasure as he replaced the dish on the table, "Anyways, gotta go do," he mimicked typing on a keyboard and giggled again, "stuff."

"Quite all right. Lovely to meet you, Jim." I forced a sympathetic expression.

"It's been a pleasure." John said with a strained voice.

"Yeah," He replied, looking only at Sherlock as he slowly left the room, "a pleasure."

Molly sighed as she watched Jim leave, then quickly decided to join him. "Cute, isn't he?" She beamed as she shuffled off in his wake.

"Dear God… Please let that be the most excruciating part of our day." John said, looking upwards.

"Someone has a crush." Sherlock quipped.

"Who? Jim?" I asked.

Sherlock flicked the dish aside to reveal a left behind piece of paper with a phone number scrawled onto it.

I nodded, "He couldn't take his eyes off of you."

Sherlock appeared contemplative as he turned the paper over in his fingers, before letting it flutter back onto his work surface, "Not the most pressing revelation of the day. Here, John, tell me what you see. This requires a second opinion."

"Nope. Not with an audience." John said quickly, shaking his head.

"It's only me_, _John. Go on." I encouraged.

"Let me use you as an excuse, will you?" John griped.

"Never." I smiled, "I'll put fingers in my ears if that'll speed this along."

"You would?" John asked sincerely, even though I had made the offer in jest. I sat in silence waiting for him to let on that he wasn't serious, though I quickly realized that wasn't the case. I shook my head and put my fingers in my ears before slowly walking to the other side of the lab. I had a look at some cloudy specimen jars as John took a turn with uncovering any secrets tucked away in the muddy trainers. After a minute I turned back towards the pair, waiting until John gave a wave to rejoin them.

"These shoes were well-loved," Sherlock stated, "the laces have been repeatedly changed, the material frequently cleaned and repaired - the wearer had eczema, which is clear from the traces of flaky skin left behind on the laces. The owner also had weak arches - you can note the difference in wear between the outside and inside."

"Sounds like a real stud." John offered sarcastically.

"You also maintained that these shoes are meant to look retro, John, but they're twenty years old."

"_Twenty?"_

"Their condition a result of diligent care. These are limited edition from ninety eighty nine. The dirt in the treads is from Sussex with London mud coating that. Pollen match," Sherlock stated, pointing at a map on the computer screen when John opened his mouth to ask, "as you can see, the kid who owned these came to London from Sussex two decades ago."

"And they didn't go with him from here. If they were so well loved, then… Why?" I frowned.

"What do you think happened to him?"

"Something bad," Sherlock declared, looking unblinkingly at the floor until he bolted up and smacked a palm on the table, causing both John and I to jolt, "Carl Powers!" He stated, his eyes glazing over in thought and revelation as he stared at the shoes with fresh amazement.

"… Who?" John asked, breaking the silence.

"Let's go." Sherlock said, gathering the trainers and speed walking to the exit.

"Who, Sherlock?"

Sherlock whipped out his phone and feverishly typed, quickly pulling up an article about a boy from Brighton who had drowned at a swimming tournament.

"Er - okay." Was all John could muster, not quite matching Sherlock's enthusiasm.

"I read this when I was a child and still had something more to glean from it than you two."

"Yeah, yeah, child prodigy, there's your daily compliment. Get to the point, please." John urged.

"This boy drowned after having some sort of fit in the pool, following along still?"

"Sherlock." I exasperatedly stated.

"After his body was pulled from the water, something was amiss. Problem was-"

"Aside from a boy drowning." John interjected.

"His shoes? Missing. The overarching problem about _that_ problem is that nobody else deemed that as suspicious enough to look into. I wrote letters, went to the pool, spoke to the police, but nobody would listen to a bloody kid."

"But twenty years later," I stated, looking at the evidence bag with a new pit in my stomach, "here's your chance."

"Precisely." Sherlock grinned.


	11. Chapter 11

Six. It was now _six _in the evening and we had five hours to go until some sort of hell was promised to break loose at our curfew's cutoff. I sat on the sofa, leaning forward with my hands on my cheeks and with a prime view of John's shoes as he paced throughout the sitting room. Sherlock had sequestered himself in the kitchen with a spread of newspapers, documents, and photographs relating to Carl Powers' untimely death. My eyes trailed upwards as John let out his eighth frustrated groan of the last half hour.

"Don't go in there, John." I said emotionlessly. At this point I felt so much panic that I ironically felt nearly nothing at all.

"Thanks." He said, nodding his head and running his hands through his hair. John had instructed me to keep him in check so he wouldn't bother Sherlock whenever the nervous urge struck, which was every minute at this point.

"Useless," He muttered to himself as he continued to pace, "You know what? I'm just going to pop in there, see how things are shaping up."

"Sherlock promised he would let us know if he found anything of note. We can't waste his time by asking extraneous questions."

"Right, right. You're right… but what if I go make some tea? Do you want tea?" He inquired.

"Can you make tea without small talk?"

"I can't make any promises."

"Do you want tea?" I asked after standing and placing two strong hands on both of his shoulders. He nodded quickly, gulping rather anxiously. "I'll be back."

"Can you just ask him if-"

"No, John." I said firmly but with a sympathetic smile.

I opened the door and walked into the dimly lit kitchen, letting my eyes scan over the detective and his motley collection of papers. I put the kettle on and crossed my arms, leaning against the counter and continuing to watch him curiously. He struck me as especially captivating and rather boyish while deep in this investigation, his dark waves growing more unruly as the taxing evening progressed. I did my best to actively suppress _feelings _in general in regards to my neighbors, as even though we were friends, there was a sort of professional air accompanying that relationship. Not that I offered much help with their work (clearly), but I was involved by default, and took Sherlock's job more seriously than I had ever taken any of my own. Not to mention that this was a man who had sworn off human connection…

"You're staring." Sherlock muttered, even though he hadn't fully turned towards me or even lifted his eyes from a photograph of the swim meet since I'd entered the room. _How?_

"I suppose I could watch the kettle steam then."

"More activity than what's happening over here." Sherlock replied with a surprisingly joking tone.

"I have a sneaking suspicion this is the sort of work you live for. Pressurized. Fraught with risk."

Sherlock turned so I could now see his chiseled side profile as he smirked in return, "But of course."

I chuckled lightly, "Alright, don't talk to me anymore. I didn't come in here to waste your time." I grabbed our three cups and dropped in tea bags and sugar before the kettle clicked off.

"I take offense to such little confidence in my ability to multitask."

"It's not so much a question of ability as it is a matter of current preference." I bantered, pouring water into the mugs and setting a steeping timer.

"I wouldn't protest four and a half minutes of light disruption."

"If it's _light _disruption you're after then I'm currently your best bet. John is losing his mind out there, so if you're in need of a more high-spirited disturbance I'll send him in." I mentioned as I finally wandered over to Sherlock's table, placing a hand on the back of his chair and one on the table as I surveyed the photographs he was combing over.

"Perhaps we'll have to resort to that later. Your nail varnish is gone."

"I picked it off." I said, withdrawing my hand, "Anxious habit."

"You're anxious?" He asked, his brows drawing together as he flipped a newspaper clipping over.

"You're not?"

"Not in a fearful sense."

"In an impatient sense then."

"That's me." He said blithely.

"I know." I smiled to myself, "Question: would it put you off if I asked a question pertaining to the case?"

"I suppose we'll have to test that to find out."

"Carl Powers died in 1989," I stated quickly, now pulling a chair next to Sherlock and taking a seat, "so someone hung onto these shoes for _decades_. What incentive is there to grab them in the first place? Sentimentality? Fear? Wickedness? Juvenile entitlement? It was a boys' swim meet after all."

"We wouldn't be incorrect to assume all of the above, though if the thief in question had felt such fear they would have undoubtedly gotten rid of the shoes out of paranoia. Not immediately, but certainly within the first few years of possession."

Sherlock swept his hand across the pile of papers and unearthed a photograph of the swim meet in question, holding it up so we could both have a look. I leaned in closer to get a better view. I searched the faces of preteen and teenage boys that were visible to the camera, trying to envision any of the bright eyed youths murdering one of their peers. I supposed I was getting ahead of myself by assuming that Carl Powers was murdered, but I couldn't conjure up any other possibility. I also couldn't rid myself of the nagging thought that Sherlock and I were in close proximity, our shoulders brushing before a knock sounded at the door.

"Don't knock, John, just talk." Sherlock commanded, smacking the photo down on the table.

John opened the door rather forcefully as he exasperatedly looked at both of us, "What's this then? Not fair. I've been helplessly sat out there, useless, unable to do _anything _in a dark sitting room-"

"I initiated the conversation," Sherlock clarified in annoyance, "and we have plenty of artificial light sources, John, we're well past the dark ages. Perhaps switching a lamp on would make you feel slightly less useless, in your words?"

I raised my eyebrows at the mix of attitudes now in the kitchen, thankful that the timer had gone off and I had tea to busy myself with.

"I came in here to tell you your brother is texting _me _now, Sherlock. You can't continue to ignore this."

"I can, actually."

"It's an issue of national importance, apparently…" John said, squinting at his mobile screen.

"You know what?" Sherlock started, drumming all of his fingers against the table, "I have a solution that will resolve multiple problems."

"And what might that be?"

"You're going to catch a cab." Sherlock stated simply, leaning back in his chair.

John was sent into a bit of a mad dash as he prepared to have a chat with Mycroft Holmes about the stolen missile plans. He downed his piping hot tea, scrambled to put on a more business casual ensemble, and grumbled about a multitude of things, but most pervasively his reluctance in having to go alone.

"Taking one for the team, John." I bid him adieu as he finally left the flat while nervously straightening his tie as he descended the steps.

I was once again left in the dim sitting room, except now I was alone, with Sherlock of course tucked away. I wasn't going to disturb him unless he needed something on the off chance, so I threw a blanket over my shoulders, grabbed my tea, and flipped through a random encyclopedia I had blindly pulled off of the shelf. For the first time that day I had lost track of time - not easy to do when such a weight is placed on it, and was shocked to realize that the clock read eight o'clock in the evening when John finally returned.

"So?" I prompted.

"Relatively painless," He stated, ripping off his tie, "Mycroft says hello. He wants Sherlock to determine how Andrew West ended up dead at Battersea with no train ticket and an unused Oyster card."

"That's it?"

John nodded.

"Curious that he felt it so necessary to divulge this in person."

"He's a Holmes." John shrugged.

"Curiouser and curiouser." I quoted Alice in Wonderland.

"Can't believe I put a tie on for that." John grumbled, falling back on the couch as we continued our waiting game.

It must have been only a quarter of an hour later when Sherlock bursted through the kitchen door, "Poison!" He bellowed, "Clostridium botulinum. One of the deadliest poisons known to humankind."

"You found traces?" I asked with an incredulous smile.

"A minuscule amount - still inside the trainers. It had been mixed with Carl's eczema medication. Think about it! He makes the trip here, giving the toxins enough time to take effect and," Sherlock slapped the wall for effect, "muscles seize, the boy drowns."

"You're telling me that the autopsy wouldn't have picked that up?" John asked skeptically.

"It's really only detectable if you're on the hunt for it. When the case was active I couldn't even get anyone to look into missing potential evidence - clearly they weren't the most concerned about foul play."

"That's why the shoes were taken, so that those traces couldn't be found." I realized.

"Precisely."

"So the killer and the bomber are one and the same?" John ascertained and Sherlock nodded slowly in confirmation.

Sherlock sent a few messages and took a couple of notes before the pink phone rang from a corner table. I looked at the floor and discreetly squeezed my fingernails into my palms as the crying woman from the night before once again began sobbing over the speaker. I felt relief in knowing that she was still alive, though had difficulty stomaching her anguish.

"Well done, you. Come and get me." She sniffled.

"Where are you? Tell us where you are." Sherlock demanded.

"I'll be ringing your pals at Scotland Yard. I - I'm dismissed. You're dismissed. Sleep tight, detective." She sobbed haltingly before hanging up.

Sherlock whipped out his personal phone and feverishly typed a message to Lestrade, wanting to make certain that there was nothing more that was needed from him during the night.

"That's it?" John asked, "Just like that?"

"For now." Sherlock stated flatly, his eyebrows furrowed as he surveyed his phone screen.

"That was brilliant, Sherlock." I finally stated in earnest.

"Seriously, mate." John echoed.

Sherlock looked outwardly indifferent in response to the compliments, recognizing the truth behind them for himself, surely, though I hoped that he felt the warmth of the sincerity. The three of us spent a quarter of an hour recapping the evening and talking about how the following day could potentially play out. All we knew for certain was that we were going to begin our morning by heading back to New Scotland Yard to catch up with Lestrade.

"Hey," I mentioned after the room had fallen into a comfortable silence, "remember those plans we formulated during breakfast?"

"_You, _not we… And would it make a difference if I lied and said no?" Sherlock grumbled.

"Even though you lack a garden you make up for it in nefarious tendencies, so I'm assuming you own a shovel?" I tilted my head.

"Would it make a difference if I lied and said no?" Sherlock repeated, letting his head fall back into his chair.

"Damn, that's right. We are walking that - that _thing _to Regent's Park after we get something to eat." John declared, pointing in the direction of the kitchen, "I'd like to be able to freely rummage through the fridge again, thanks."

I finally went downstairs to relieve Mrs. Hudson of cat caretaking duties. The grey feline rubbed my chin as I carried him to my flat, though he immediately crawled onto the sofa for a nap, expressing little interest in the change of scene. I opted for different footwear, seeing as we were inevitably going to be dealing with mucky conditions in whatever overgrown, off the beaten path part of the park we ended up in. I slid on my old leather boots and tossed a navy blue corduroy jacket over my shoulder before heading back into the main hallway.

"I'm going to ask a favor of you, dear."

"Anything." I shrugged, unsure as to what Mrs. Hudson needed as she peered out through the space the dead bolt allotted for her door to be ajar.

"Anything? If that's the case, I have a nephew; handsome, local, _very_ eligible…"

"Alive? Breathing? Just what I'm looking for. A tempting offer, if so."

"Will you run this upstairs?" I heard a few clicks from behind her door before it fully opened, revealing her outstretched arms holding a platter filled with various plates of food, "And he really is a lovely boy. Sarcastic as you, Evelyn, an architect, a wonderful cook, marvelous with children…" She continued to list positive attributes as I walked away, shaking my head.

"Then there has to be a catch."

"He's just very selective. Come back down and fetch the second tray in a few - at least you'll be getting your steps in!"

"You've outdone yourself." I responded over my shoulder.

Mrs. Hudson had even been so kind as to bring us tea when Sherlock was deep into his research earlier. Her generosity never failed to impress, and the fact that she maintained such disinclination to do these domestic tasks was always amusing and so far from the truth.

"Courtesy of Mrs. H." I stated, setting the first platter down on the coffee table as John tended to a wispy but developing fire in the fireplace. Once settled in with our dinner, we all huddled next to the flames as we scarfed down the roasted vegetables, bread, and soup. John and Sherlock's flat was still an "open air" environment, with chilled nighttime breezes drifting in through the non-existent windows. John had stretched out on the floor, his hands laced across his full stomach as we waited for the hour to grow later and more prime for dark and unspeakable activities.

"Five more minutes, please." John grumbled, unprompted and with closed eyes from his spot on the floor.

"Whatever you say." I replied, "Are you going to come with?" I inquired, turning my head towards the detective.

"Can you think of anything more amusing or thought provoking that I could busy myself with at this hour?"

"Hm, more compelling than any equation involving John and a severed head…" I clicked my tongue in thought.

"I'm not touching him, Sherlock, so this equation automatically includes a plus sign in front of your name." John declared, finally sitting up, "Grab the shovel... _and _a trench coat so we can tuck said shovel away."

I joined him in standing up, "We obviously need some sort of vessel as well. Hat box? Regular box? Large Tupperware container?"

Sherlock wandered into the kitchen as I listed options, "Bin bag," he stated, whipping one open.

"Lavender scented," I squinted, reading the box from across the room, "at least now we don't have to pick him any flowers."

"Functional." Sherlock agreed with a grin.

"Torch." John stated from behind me - I stuck a hand out and he slapped the flashlight into my palm.

I pulled on my corduroy jacket and a knit hat that was shoved into one of its pockets. Sherlock chucked a long black coat at John, who tossed it on and tucked the shovel away inside its fabric.

"Never thought I'd be so thankful for a summer cold spell." John observed.

We stood by the door and both stared expectantly at Sherlock.

"Go on." John urged, motioning to the fridge.

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he opened the refrigerator door and placed the bag over its temporary occupant. I frowned in repugnance and John grimaced as "something" rolled from a top shelf and thudded into the bottom of the bag. Sherlock tied off the receptacle and raised the makeshift resting place as he strolled towards us.

"Do us a favor and gauge which direction the wind is blowing, then place yourself accordingly." I stated as I slipped out of the door before him, fearing that a lavender scented bin bag wouldn't be enough to mask whatever stage of decay its contents were in.

I pulled my coat tightly around me as we stepped into the evening air and were met with a light, nippy drizzle.

"Wind is coming from the Northeast." Sherlock remarked, staying a few steps behind John and I. We walked briskly in the direction of Regent's Park, only a two minute walk away from our building. Though the hour was late, the street was still bustling thanks to the nearby tube station, so we strolled along the park's border as we searched for a quieter section to slip into unseen.

"Here." Sherlock stated suddenly, stopping abruptly in his tracks after surveying our surroundings. He dropped the bag on the other side of the chain link fence before kicking a leg up and climbing over. I followed rather clumsily, my boots causing me to stumble on the muddy dismount before Sherlock reflexively stuck out a forearm at waist level, putting a firm stopper to my trip.

"Thanks." I said quietly, tugging at a sleeve. John handed me the shovel before slowly scaling the fence for himself.

"It will be daylight by the time you get over if you keep this pace." Sherlock said impatiently.

"_Not_ the time. Concentrating." John said curtly before finally tumbling over with only slightly more grace than I had displayed.

"Let's head south, you lead the way." I said, lightly hitting Sherlock's arm with the back of my hand.

We followed Sherlock through a series of thick bushes that were covered in droplets of rain. I squinted against the resulting spray as branches bent in his wake and snapped back into place. This was to no fault of his own, only for practicality's sake as we had many a branch to work through. I grinned apologetically as I looked back at John, who was wiping droplets from his cheek that were catapulted from my own journey through the brambles. We found ourselves in a dark clearing surrounded by luscious trees, so I handed John the torch and commenced digging the small grave.

"Is a meter too deep?" I asked, wiping accumulating mist droplets from around my eyes after a few minutes of breaking up the earth.

"This is heavy soil," Sherlock stated, crouching as he observed the hole's progress, "a depth of two feet would suffice. That's what they recommend for small house pets."

"You are a trove of useful information, Sherlock Holmes."

As I dug, I couldn't stop myself from thinking about my mother's burial, though because our current predicament was so wildly obscure and beyond anything I could have conjured up before living downstairs from a private investigator, no feelings of grief or trauma were able to effectively bubble to the surface. It should also be noted that I was a poor judge of "processing" trauma, in the sense that I didn't allow myself to process it at all. If anything had been learned from my short stint in therapy, it's that I had a tendency to expel all of my energy on repressing distress until it was entirely snuffed out. I was convinced that this habit would catch up with me eventually, and that a lifetime's worth of suffocating anguish would come crashing down on me all at once if that emotional levy were to break, but in the meantime, I couldn't quite train my mind to behave otherwise.

"All right." I huffed before Sherlock stepped forward, extending an arm and indifferently dropping the bag into its forever home.

"Any final words?" John asked.

The three of us stood in a line, crossing our arms and blinking against the claggy weather as I attempted (and failed) to formulate any sort of impromptu eulogy for this stranger.

"Rest in peace, head." I finally stated.

"May you not miss your body," John tacked on, "at least you were utilized for science."

"Only a failed experiment, so, I fear you were useless in both life and death."

Hardly the most respectful collection of statements, but after hearing about the man's track record, I didn't entirely feel the need to encourage reverence from the men on either side of me. We stood in silence for a few moments longer until John clapped once and grabbed the shovel from my grasp and handed the torch to Sherlock.

"I've got this round." He stated, stepping forward to fulfil burying duties.

I pulled at the side of my cap and narrowed my eyes against the intensifying downpour to look up at Sherlock, who was being rather careless in where he pointed the beam of his flashlight.

"What?" He asked, pointing the light at my face before I shut my eyes and shoved it away with both of my hands.

"Watch it - wave that thing around some more and a plane might think it's supposed to land here."

"Oh I would _welcome_ a fluke plane landing." He grinned.

"I don't think Regent's could handle more action tonight."

"I can guarantee you that _that," _He encircled John's form with his torchlight, "is not the only body part lying in an unmarked grave within the confines of this park. Regent's would cope."

"I'll take your word for it. Hey, you've heard all about the legendary plague pits, haven't you? Aldgate Station? The Sainsbury's in Whitechapel?" I smirked.

"That the tube line curves because it has to compensate for impenetrable piles of remains?" Sherlock added with a glint in his eyes.

"Yeah - all just lore, apparently."

"A shame."

"I know," I nodded, "but if it's any consolation, there have always been a staggering amount of lone bones found during any sort of Tube construction, which is eerier, in my opinion."

"I wouldn't even say that that's a matter of opinion. The plague pits contain no mystery, no intrigue. Mass burials, aside from the overt morbidity, leave little room for speculation or unease. The remains left from isolated incidents are almost always deliciously vague."

"Oy, we would currently be hopping the fence if you were consistent with the lighting." John called from the darkness.

"Sorry." I called, grabbing the torch from Sherlock and pointing it back towards the clearing. It illuminated John, who was looking very soggy, bespattered with muck, and unsurprisingly peeved.

We watched John as he topped off the hole in the ground, the rain making the dirt much more difficult to grab and rearrange, though it worked in our favor by making the patch of earth look mostly seamless.

"Good enough. Let's get out of here." He stated.

"No one will question us if we exit through the front gate, for the benefit of the fence climbing inept." Sherlock replied with a pointed glance as we wasted no time in dashing through the dense bushes once again.

"If I'm still considered inept _next_ time, let it be noted that it's because you denied me valuable practice."

"I refuse to carry that weight."

"The weight of responsibility, or my weight when I've failed to climb a fence?" I clarified.

"I've always appreciated the efficiency of a double entendre."

We jogged through Regent's Park, feeling confident that no one would disturb us (or that we would be of any disturbance to others), especially under the blanket of pelting rain. We kept up the pace as we exited the front gate, running past dark businesses and under the mellow glow of hazy streetlamps. We filed in through the front door of 221, catching our breath as we listened to water hit the floor in rivulets from our collectively sopping threads.

"We should feel good about ourselves." John asserted.

"Hopefully tomorrow that will kick in," I replied, wringing out the hem of my coat as Sherlock had already begun ascending their stairs. I caught John's eye and shook my head at the detective's behavior, "I'll see you in a handful of hours, John."

"Don't remind me." He waved, following slowly in Sherlock's wake.

I hastily drew a bath once inside my flat, nearly falling asleep in the hot water as the tendrils of steam brought a welcomed sweat to my chilled brow. I changed into my pajamas and ignited a small fire, deciding that a couch in front of a crackling fireplace would be as good a place as any to rest for the night. I grabbed an old quilt and nestled into the plush cushions, the sound of heavy rainfall drifting in through my poorly insulated window coverings. The events of the day played over in my head for want of convincing myself that they weren't just some bizarre work of fiction.


	12. Chapter 12

I genuinely cannot thank you enough for your lovely reviews. They gave me a much needed boost of encouragement (and serotonin). Sending _so_ much love. ALSO, HAPPY AUTUMN! *air horn air horn*

x

The wind whipped my hair as John, Sherlock, and I strolled along the River Thames whilst in spirited conversation. The sky was murky with the day's brewing moisture, though the nebulous orange light of the morning sun was still attempting to burst through the hazy clouds.

"Halloween is in October." I stated firmly.

"… Since?" Sherlock inquired.

"Loaded question," I pursed my lips in thought, "depending on which festival or tradition you decide to trace back and in which country, but short answer? A long damn time, Sherlock."

"I'm willing to bet that the man hasn't once dropped a Mars bar into a pillow case." John added with an exclamatory point of his finger.

"Perhaps you'll give it a go this year, seeing as you now know it's not in August?"

"_Reward_ children for coming to our door?" Sherlock confirmed with a grimace.

"Just hand out toothpaste then. That will almost instantly achieve the opposite effect." I shrugged.

We could hear another mighty gust of wind in the leaves of the trees above us before we felt the rush of it on the riverwalk.

"To 'ell with this!" A nearby man declared as his paint brushes tumbled to the ground. He grabbed the easel and canvas he had been painting as he woefully kicked the fallen tools and marched off with a tight lipped frown.

We walked briskly to New Scotland Yard (this time without a parking garage disturbance), making the meandering journey through its hallways until we reached Lestrade's office. We (or rather, Sherlock) received the usual sour glances from those that we crossed paths with on the way. Sherlock wasted no time in opening Lestrade's door and looming expectantly across from his desk - John and I followed, giving Lestrade apologetic smiles and waves on behalf of our companion.

"Morning." He said flatly, eyes not hiding his exasperation.

"Oh, you expected us - no need for the indignation." Sherlock insisted.

"God forbid I receive the courtesy of a polite knock."

John, who was closest to the door, stuck a fist behind his back and rapped it with his knuckles.

"Cheers." Lestrade rolled his eyes, "Right then, where shall I start?"

"The woman, please." I urged, taking a seat.

"Ah, yes, the hostage. She's physically well - can't quite speak on her current mental state. Two men breaking into your home and strapping enough explosives to you to take down The Royal Albert Hall would shake a person to say the least," Lestrade unearthed a sheet of paper, letting his eyes briefly scan its contents before he delicately slid it across his desk, "She was told to phone you specifically, Sherlock, and to read from _this _script."

"Any deviation from what's written and it would have been goodbye metaphorical Royal Albert Hall." Sherlock observed.

"_And _if you wouldn't have cracked the case." John noted. Sherlock grunted in agreement.

I pulled the paper towards us so John and I could both scrutinize the unassuming type. Sherlock stood behind us with two fingers connected underneath his nose. I internally shuddered as I envisioned being in the hostage's position - this very page certainly having been burned into her memory and likely to haunt her for the rest of her days, in both waking moments and in sleep.

"Any more action in your building?" Lestrade questioned.

"No," I replied, my brows still furrowed as I read the sheet of paper with my cheek resting on my hand, "all's been mostly quiet on Baker Street."

"Regent's Park, however…" John muttered under his breath.

I shot him a small, knowing grin just before a mobile sounded from behind us. My expression turned from amusement to uncertainty, which was also visible in John's features as we turned to face Sherlock. He had the pink phone in hand as it alerted us that it held one new message. Four Greenwich pips sounded before Sherlock lowered the phone to our level with a knuckle resting on his lip in thought.

"Another photo?" Lestrade probed.

"Yes. Abandoned, wouldn't you say?" Sherlock commented. I squinted at the picture on the screen: a car. What was most striking and unsettling in my eyes was the fact that the license plate number was clearly visible. It seemed all too obvious after what we had been given previously.

Lestrade clicked his tongue as he narrowed his gaze and surveyed the image for himself, "Not yours, Evelyn?"

"Not this time."

"I'll run the plate number through the system - see if it comes up as a missing vehicle." He stated, lightly patting his hand on the table before heading over to his computer.

"Oy - this is for you." Someone stated brusquely from the doorway. I turned to see a woman handing Sherlock yet another phone.

I put my hands on the arms of my chair as I sat up straighter in my seat, taking note of every feature and nuanced expression on Sherlock's face as he stated, "Hello?" before walking out of Lestrade's office. Instantly, I felt suspicious. I stood concernedly, following him in taking leave. The pit in my stomach that was, these days, seemingly impenetrable and always faintly there, rose to prominence once again. I stood halfway in Lestrade's doorway as I continued to observe Sherlock's reactions from across the room. I was shaken from my concentration when John sidled up to me in my peripherals.

"It's got to be another one." I said with a troubled frown.

John wordlessly nodded in Sherlock's direction as a sign that we should head his way.

"Who are you? What's that noise?" We heard Sherlock quietly command as we stepped closer. We stood in silence as Sherlock listened until the caller seemed to end the call abruptly, "Hello? Are you still there? Hello?" Sherlock bit his lip and furrowed his brow as he stared at the dark screen.

"Tell us in a few." I broke the silence and motioned for them to follow me back into Lestrade's office, "Find anything?" I asked, knocking on the doorframe and eliciting an appreciative smirk from the detective inspector in response to the gesture.

"Just got off the phone. We've found it." He stated, surveying his desk and rubbing his palms together as he walked towards the door, "Oh, hold on!" He remarked abruptly, sticking a finger in the air and pivoting in place, "I knew I was forgetting something."

"We don't have time for this." Sherlock stated restlessly. I looked up towards him, instantly feeling deflated as I thought about the possibility of facing yet another high stakes curfew.

"Just a second." Lestrade grumbled as he pushed stray papers aside and opened miscellaneous drawers.

"Twenty three, twenty four, twenty five…" Sherlock drawled.

"Gotcha. I nicked this - er, _obtained _this for you." Lestrade stated, handing me a slip of paper.

My eyes widened and my lips stretched into a grin as I read what was printed on the card, "You pilfered an annual parking pass for us? I'm honored."

"I was planning on giving it to you for Christmas, but figured I'd save you lot five months of paying at that dingy place down the road."

"This is incredible, Greg, really. I can't thank you enough."

"We can exchange meaningless pleasantries on the way, can we not?" Sherlock complained with a wry smile.

"We'll take a van. Donovan! You're coming with." Lestrade asserted with a beckoning point at a woman I'd only ever seen sport nothing but an embittered expression, though I was very cognisant of the variable that was my only entering New Scotland Yard with Sherlock Holmes.

"Where're we headed?" She inquired.

"Down the river a ways. Wilkins, McNair, why don't you tag along." Lestrade added, clapping his hands on the shoulders of two strapping young officers.

"A ways?" Donovan repeated with a critical tone.

"A _ways. _If you'd rather go back to your desk and do bookwork, be my guest." He cautioned.

"Not complaining, just ascertaining." She said through a forced grin.

We kept up with Lestrade's deliberate strides as we walked through starkly lit hallways and a series of secured doors before exiting the building and piling into one of their vans. I crawled into the back seat, expecting Sherlock to take a more front row position and feeling surprised when he and John jumped in next to me. Lestrade drove with Donovan stationed in the passenger seat and Wilkins and McNair in front of us. I assumed they were new hires as they radiated a timid energy.

Though the weather was still rather cool, the van was stuffy, and I instantly cursed myself for selecting the row furthest from any airflow and with windows that wouldn't open. Lestrade turned the radio on at an annoyingly low level and communicated infrequently with officers on his cellphone, but aside from this we sat in a comfortable silence as we pulled into traffic. I leaned my head against the window as the van rumbled over a bridge, listening to Wilkins and McNair chat about the pros and cons of every pub near their place of work. When they lambasted a pub called The White Hart, John apparently had no choice but to join the fray and come to its defense.

"Eight hours." Sherlock leaned over and said in a hushed tone.

I turned towards him, not yet meeting his gaze but staring at his hands as they rested on the hem of his coat, "I had assumed it was another hostage, but please don't hesitate in telling me that I'm wrong."

"Hesitate in telling someone that they're wrong?" Sherlock reiterated. I finally let my eyes flicker up towards his face, which was complete with a curious brow and hint of a grin.

"Too out of character?" I returned, cracking a faint smile as well.

"I'm afraid this isn't an opportunity for correction. It was a man this time, and the call came from outside - somewhere urban, filled with noise. Filled with people."

"Then what are the odds he isn't in London?" I asked, feeling a sort of chill reverberate through me as the familiar cityscape passed by.

"If they think an eight hour time frame is appropriate? Slim to none." He stared determinedly across the river where our hostage was likely stationed and stricken with a level of panic that was unknown to most.

"Did he say anything of note?"

"There are details to be found in every subtlety. _Everything_ is of note."

"You know what I mean."

"No," he sighed, "he did say it's okay that we've gone to the police, but not to rely on them."

I didn't smile, but couldn't repress the twinkle of mirth in my eyes as I overtly shifted my attention to our current company and our roving confines.

"This isn't _relying _on them," Sherlock said firmly, "we're simply… utilizing their resources."

"I didn't say anything." I replied amusedly, struggling to cross one leg over the other in the cramped and crowded backseat. Sherlock expelled air through his nose in annoyance as he attempted to shift his own knee over to assist in the adjustment.

"An entire paragraph can be condensed into a single glance."

"Can it? Then tell me what I'm 'saying' now." I raised my chin and searched his eyes.

"Are you being serious?" He asked with a tone of skepticism.

My brows lifted slightly.

"'Yes.' All right, throw me something more substantial then." He replied impatiently.

I lightly bit my lip as I formulated a meaningful enough thought. I tucked my hair behind my ear and channeled my current musings into a single expression, trying not to smile at the scenario as Sherlock pensively analyzed my features.

"The Red Lion is overrated!" He finally stated confidently, much louder than our previous ramblings.

"Oy!" Wilkins remarked from in front of us, placing a hand on the back of his seat as he animatedly turned around.

"Utter sacrilege." McNair added, Sherlock having just bashed the joint they had been in the midst of raving about.

I clasped my hands in the lap of my dark brown trousers and focused on them as I tried to contain any laughter while Sherlock met the conversational wrath of the enthusiastic pub goers. He looked disconcerted as John began listing on his fingers reasons why The Red Lion was a "high-calibre establishment."

"You did that on purpose." Sherlock grumbled, physically pushing himself further back into his seat and attempting to tune out the boys' conversation once again, even though he was now on the receiving end of their hurled opinions.

"I did." I grinned.

"You don't think it's underrated."

"Not at all," I leaned in closer and rested the back of my hand on his coat sleeve covered upper arm, "at least we've established that you can aptly read faces and that I can successfully lie without the use of words."

"More of an education than I ever expected to receive in the back of a police van." Sherlock replied sarcastically, grasping my hand and effectively flicking it back onto my lap out of what I perceived as forced petulance.

I chuckled lightly, resting my head back as pedestrians, lush trees, and ornate stone architecture flitted past, the monotonous grey skies paired with the movement of the vehicle making my eyes grow heavy. The car journey didn't feel tremendously long with thanks to London's varied and always unpredictable urban scenery. At one point, Lestrade whipped the car to the curb and parked, jostling us all from our light dozing as we realized he was flailing his arms while in pursuit of a teenage boy who had been leaving his mark on an old deli with a can of graffiti.

"Lousy kid." Lestrade muttered, climbing back in.

Because the backseat was tight quarters, the three of us sat mostly flush together. I felt Sherlock fidget slightly, discerning it was because of the impromptu delay. "Surely we're almost there." I remarked softly, which turned out to be entirely true. Minutes later we rolled up to a secured area of the river where the car was sitting, being tended to by another group of officers. John frowned with tight lips and raised his hands in a sign of defeat as Sherlock wriggled over his knees to exit the vehicle first.

"D'you reckon anyone would notice if I just stayed here?" John asked flatly, letting his hands slowly fall onto his thighs before they curled into fists.

"Don't make me crawl over you too," I sighed, letting my head fall onto the seat-back in front of me as I observed the happenings outside, "Though, to be fair, I don't think anyone would notice if we _both _stayed in here."

"Mm. Sherlock might." John replied.

"Sherlock?" I exhaled sharply in incredulity, "I'd be willing to bet a fiver he wouldn't. The tunnel vision is palpable today."

"He likes you more than you think." John offered reflectively.

"Do you know something I don't?" I scrunched my forehead as I neglected to vocalize any of the many questions that instantaneously began swirling around in my head.

"Doubtful," He smirked, "but I sense… something, I guess." He stated slowly.

"Don't make me bet a second fiver"

"It's just a flatmate's intuition." He persisted, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Expound, please."

"It's nothing, I just - well, I would never use the word 'fancy' in regards to Sherlock Holmes, and there's no basis to this, really, but I just get the overall impression that he's… curious about you."

"Curious_? _Oh, you've dropped a real bombshell, John." My words were dripping with sarcasm, but my cheeks betrayed me with a flush greater than what the stuffy van alone was capable of.

"A little reverence for the context of the last couple of days, please." John replied jokingly, matching my dry tone.

"If anyone's allowed to joke about bombs…" I raised my eyebrows as John snorted while overtly gauging my reaction as a basis for how he should respond. Dark humor was the only coping mechanism I found even a sliver of solace in at this point.

"I don't think you understand. For Sherlock to be _interested _in someone… He's quite possibly the world's most inquisitive being by nature, but tell me, how often is it that he expresses interest in _living_ people?"

"You have a point," I reflected as I thought back on the short (albeit jam-packed) time period for which I'd known the man, "but I fail to recall any occasion on which I've felt he's expressed interest in _me._"

"He purchased your father's books-"

"Not confirmed." I tilted my head.

"He offered you his place on the couch that one time-"

"Elementary manners, really."

"He bought you coffee." John stated exasperatedly.

"When?" I inquired after a moment's pause. I had never once been greeted by the detective with a cup of warm drink in hand.

"This morning. He slipped out early and walked to a cafe down the street. He was quite secretive about it, actually."

"So secretive that I didn't even know he bought me a coffee?" I confirmed, my eyebrows coming together in confusion.

"I only know because I saw the full cup in our bin. Well, the cup was empty, the bin bag was slopped with it - I got on his case about not dumping it down the sink first." He winced at the recollection before physically waving the memory away, "It wouldn't have been for anybody else."

"Why would he throw it away instead of giving it to me?" I pondered quietly, letting my gaze travel over to the dark haired enigma's roaming form down the way.

"I don't know, but it must mean something." John shrugged.

I frowned in introspection. Was something simply wrong with the drink? Did Sherlock buy the coffee only to realize the gesture would come across as more friendly than he'd prefer? Was he afraid of unintentionally leading someone on in any capacity? Did he himself have feelings deep (deep, _deep) _down that he didn't want to foster or encourage? Was he just behaving as a civil, quote-on-quote normal person?

"What are we doing?" John laughed, rubbing his hands over his eyes.

"We're stalling, John!" I said dramatically, smacking my hands on the seat in front of me and shaking any unnecessarily amorous (or equally unromantic) musings from my mind, "But let's go, this is our burst of energy. _Go!" _I exclaimed as I gently pushed him towards the door.

We tumbled onto the riverside where Sherlock was communicating with Lestrade near the abandoned vehicle. Donovan was standing with crossed arms behind the pair as they scrutinized the seats. A breeze rippled through my clothing while we walked towards the water's edge and I filled John in on the day's newly imposed time restriction.

"Eight hours?" John asked loudly once I'd finished.

"A bit less than that now, but yeah." I grimaced, skipping a rock.

"Unbelievable." John grumbled repeatedly with varying inflections as he put his hands in his pockets and officially wandered over to the car to participate in the inspection.

I didn't much feel as though I had a place in joining the officers and detectives, so I stayed on my quiet stretch of the industrial riverbank. I strolled along the rocks, skipping the ones that were too idyllically flat and round to ignore. I stumbled upon a large block of craggy concrete, taking a seat and absorbing the dull environment we had found ourselves in. I closed my eyes in mild dread as my phone vibrated, still not possessing much fondness for the device. I pressed the home button with my eyes still closed, slowly opening one to survey the screen.

_Henry is available for dinner tomorrow. Six thirty? _

_-Mrs. Hudson_

I blinked in surprise at the text, drawing a blank as to what to type back, rereading it for the fourth time when my phone pinged again:

_Henry is my nephew by the way. I told him six thirty is fine!_

I couldn't help the noise of protest that involuntarily escaped my lips, my thumbs hovering over the phone's keyboard as I again failed to formulate any sort of response. A date? That I hadn't explicitly agreed to? Now? A _blind _date? I in no way expected Mrs. Hudson to follow through with setting us up, especially within a day of the offhanded suggestion's utterance. I felt I was in no state to be seeking companionship - nothing about me or my environment felt stable or the least bit welcoming to a person of romantic interest, a complete _stranger _nonetheless. I toyed with the idea of coming up with an excuse as I pulled my hair into a haphazard up-do to combat the wind, sighing as I came to the conclusion that I couldn't lie to Mrs. Hudson. One date didn't mean the end of the world, did it?

I turned a rock over in my fingers before frustratedly hurling it into the water, conflicting emotions consuming me with more fervor the longer I sat. What of the apparently "curious" detective? There was nothing between us, barely a whisper of hope for anything between us, but I couldn't shake the notion of him from my conscience. Unfortunately, I felt that I could live a lifetime of "what ifs'' when it came to my upstairs neighbor. Why couldn't I simply drop it? There was no need for anything more than friendship and no foundation for any sort of affection. He was rude, ignorant in many ways, and brash, but equally captivating, charming in his own right, and unmatchably brilliant. Ultimately, I decided, if the man couldn't follow through with giving me a coffee, then I would be a fool to anticipate or waste my time pining for anything more.

_Does the restaurant have a dress code?_

I eventually responded, feeling an intense pang of finality after pressing send. I registered that I was rather shaky upon standing, brushing my hands on my beige knit jumper to rid them of nonexistent dirt. I dilly dallied on the return walk, certain that no one would have noticed my absence in the excitement of the scene. I turned a corner of the winding embankment, able to see the car once again, but feeling the need to keep my eyes glued to the ground as I walked closer. I nodded at Lestrade and ducked under the crime scene tape, wanting to finally get an up close glimpse of the suspicious vehicle's interior for myself.

"You left." A familiar baritone voice observed from behind me.

My gaze didn't falter from the patch of blood it had been affixed to, "Well spotted."

"Are you ill?"

"No."

"You look ill."

"You can tell from the back of my neck?" I asked incredulously, finally facing him.

"Your shoulders appear tense and you've paled." Sherlock noted as though it were all too obvious, "But I can also now observe that your lips have adopted an uncharacteristically red-hue, as have bits of your cheeks, which suggests anxiety rather than illness. Your pupils have notably dilated-"

"It's just the weather." I said with a discontented expression, meaning to brush past him when I noticed something abnormal in return, "Have you been _crying_?"

"Yes." He said simply, his eyes appearing irritated.

"I didn't know you could cry." I leaned in closer, prickling with curiosity.

"I've been known to summon the odd tear when called for."

"I'll make note of that." I squinted, "Why?"

"Perhaps you should refrain from wandering too far away. Wouldn't want you to miss another show." He appeared content with himself as he flicked a small business card between his fingers and waved John over.

"Where are we headed now?" John queried before Sherlock held the card by two corners and presented it to us rather proudly.

**Janus Car Rentals**

"Found this in the glove compartment." He smirked.


	13. Chapter 13

**FYI - I'm going to switch back to UK spelling for now!**

x

We settled on taking a cab back to New Scotland Yard, coming to the conclusion that the freedom of having our own car for the day (and the ability to push speed limits) would serve to be more efficient than relying on taxis.

"Just head towards Big Ben." John sighed upon shutting the passenger side door.

"Righto." The dapper old cabby nodded, "Music alright?"

We sat wordlessly in an attempt to concentrate on the inspired string and horn sounds that were ever so faintly trickling through the speakers, having not even realised that the low volume music had been playing at all. Not your standard soundtrack for a black cab ride, but seemingly fitting for the rather austere part of London we had found ourselves in.

"Holst is good." I stated politely, breaking the unsure hush. The driver shot me a warm grin in the rearview mirror before we took off, the orchestra beginning to swell as we drove past a ventriloquist shop, a boarded up pub, and a sombre corner grocery store with a flickering light. My gaze traveled upwards as a few raindrops splattered my window, the sky finally having something to show for its dreary behaviour all morning. I pulled out my phone to check the weather, realising that Mrs. Hudson had sent another series of texts.

_9:46 Smart casual is well and fine._

_9:48 A dress would be lovely though, wouldn't it?_

_9:54 You're going to a French restaurant that I can't for the life of me type out._

I became self aware of the fact that I was pulling a dour face when I tucked my mobile back in my pocket, having rather suddenly lost all interest in looking into the weather.

"Holst is good?" Sherlock repeated back to me.

"Are you challenging that statement?" I asked surprisedly, unsure what to make of his questioning tone. Though I had heard him casually play his violin, he had yet to properly speak on the hobby or offer much insight into his taste in music. It struck me in that moment that I hadn't even entertained the idea of Sherlock having favourite films or composers or musicians or artists. Entertainment almost seemed too trivial for the detective.

"Of course not."

I opened my mouth to respond, but as was the theme of the day, couldn't rightly think of what to say in return, so I shut it and simply nodded.

"You like this piece?" He prodded.

"Jupiter is my favourite of the Planets Suite, so, very much. Do you? Or are you more of a Mars enthusiast yourself?"

"Jupiter." He replied with a rare glint of fondness in his eye, "You're surprised?"

"I did place you in the camp of Mars, The Bringer of War as opposed to Jupiter, The Bringer of Jollity."

"Jupiter is rooted in philosophy."

"More so than Mercury? Analysis, Mathematics -"

"Someone care to translate?" John interjected.

"Care to? Not really." Sherlock replied simply.

"It isn't my desire to interrupt," The cabby stated after a few moments of silence, "but I'm a part-time usher at Royal Festival Hall. It would be amiss if you didn't mention to you that The London Philharmonic Orchestra is playing The Planets to close out their summer series. I do have vouchers for the venue that need to be honoured. Normally my daughters run them dry, but they're both studying in Glasgow this year…"

Sherlock absentmindedly (in appearances, though I could be certain the term could never sincerely be applied to him) toyed with his lapel as his attention seemed to be captured by the passing streets as opposed to the dialogue inside of the vehicle, though I certainly couldn't vouch for what was actually going through his head.

"It _would_ be a shame if they were to go to waste," I acknowledged to the kind stranger, though my eyes were still stuck on Sherlock, "If you're positive they would go unused-"

"I am," He assured, "Just give me your name and I shall gladly place them in will-call. It's one of my favourite suites of the last century, so I'll confess I've been playing it in my cab as a sort of excited preparation."

"What's the date on that one?" John asked, not appearing to be as enthusiastic about the offer.

"Rather short notice, but next Friday."

"All yours, I'm afraid." John nodded towards me, his eyes crinkling as his face communicated covert disinterest that I instantly picked up on.

"Two tickets then. Evelyn Bennett." I smiled deeply, hoping he would notice it in the rearview, "I'm sure I'll be seeing you there, where I'll thank you again for your generosity." Quite frankly, I didn't expect Sherlock to come, but I had a fair amount of other friends in London that would be thrilled to spend an evening at the theatre.

The rain fell infrequently as the ride progressed. I was maddened by the weather's inability to commit, unsure why, and in turn was agitated with myself for letting something so mundane wear on my patience. I had to consistently remind myself to be gentle on my nerves, for the day was certainly as pressurised as one could be. John pointed the driver to the parking garage as we neared London's coveted clock tower, shouting my thanks once again as we hurriedly walked towards my car. Sherlock was meters ahead of John and I, so I took the opportunity to inquire about what I had personally deemed as the morning's most compelling happening.

"Sherlock cried earlier. Why?" I failed to hide my amusement.

"I can't believe you missed it," John said enthusiastically, "It was scary, honestly. We were speaking with Mrs. Monkford, trying to get information, when Sherlock lied about being her husband's friend as a probe. The waterworks turned on in an _instant_."

I squinted in reflection, registering that I'd missed much more than just Sherlock finding a business card for a car hire service.

John caught on quickly, giving me a breakdown, "The car had been rented by Ian Monkford. He was a banker, from the city. You saw the blood?" I nodded. "His. He had told his wife he was going away on a business trip," John tilted his head and remarked with an ironic tone, "Clearly he never arrived."

"Some trip." I grimaced sympathetically.

Instantaneously upon settling into the driver's seat a phone was held centimetres from my face, "Directions." Sherlock stated brusquely. I wrapped my fingers around the device, fighting off the urge to convey any exasperation. The ride to the car rental service was longer in mileage than I'd anticipated, but I made up for it by having as much of a lead foot as I felt bold enough to possess.

"It's closed." Sherlock commented as I pulled up to the curb.

"Janus Cars?"

"_No, _not Janus Cars. Eyes, John, use your eyes." Sherlock snapped and gestured to the clearly open rental agency across the street, "There's a cafe on this block. Closed. One of us may be inclined to make themselves scarce and wander that way for a drink, but it would be fruitless." He finished pointedly.

"And miss this? Never." I quipped with an unenthusiastic tone, "Strange name for a car rental agency, no?"

"Ancient Rome is trendy." Sherlock supplied.

"Janus, the two faced god of doors." I scrunched my nose, "Mercury was the Roman god of travellers and money… Mercury Motors!" I declared, "Missed opportunity, eh?"

"I can't say you're wrong," Sherlock grinned ever so faintly, "Here. Your penmanship is better than John's." He pulled a notepad and pen out of his coat pocket and flicked his wrist out as we walked. I looked between him and the papers before plucking them from his grasp.

"And this is for…"

"You're going to take notes."

Sherlock wasted no time in whipping open the business' front doors and seeking out the manager. He peeked behind the front desk before rather dramatically rotating in place, surveying all three hundred and sixty degrees of the space.

"Micheal Ewert. How can I help you boys?" A man declared as he emerged from a side door, "And lady, of course." He added with a patronising smile in my direction. _Hates women? _I jotted down out of spite more than necessity.

"We'd like to ask you a few questions about one of your clients." Sherlock explained.

The man's chipper facade faltered as he visibly racked his brain before inquiring, "You're coppers then?"

"We are not." Sherlock answered nonchalantly as his vision remained fixed on the rentals in the lot, "No need for concern. Unless, however, you -"

"I'm not concerned about anything I've done, no, no. You see, we have a collection of affordable vehicles, but when you have a hand in renting out luxury cars at any capacity, well, the clientele can be overbearing to say the least." He began walking towards the door he had originally surfaced from, beckoning for us to follow as he continued, "I've had men threaten to sue me over 'uncomfortable' seats, certain radio stations having too much static, windows not rolling down fast enough..."

"Would you say you've built a solid rapport in the years you've operated, Mr. Ewert?" I asked flatly, noticing that John had masked a laugh under the guise of a cough.

"With most I'd say, yes." He nodded, not picking up on the subtle jibe.

"Ian Monkford hired a car from you yesterday. Does that ring a bell?"

"Sure. A Mazda RX-8. Wouldn't forget that." He laced his fingers together over his stomach and leaned back in his chair.

Sherlock strolled over to stand beside Ewert's chair and pointed to a car in the lot, "Is that the one?"

As Ewert turned to see for himself, Sherlock took the opportunity to lean down and closely examine the man's neck. Ewert swivelled back into place and laughed, "No, mate. Those are all Jaguars. I can sense you're not much of a car man."

"You like Mazdas, though? Quality vehicles?" Sherlock persisted. I did my best to continue note taking, but failed to see how anything I could think to record at this point would be useful to us or failed to be remembered by Sherlock.

"Oh, they're superb. I wouldn't say no to a piece of machinery like that."

"And surely someone like yourself could afford one? Add it to the personal collection?"

"Listen, I always make this comparison; my wife, Sheila, she _loves _Maltese dogs. We already have three. If I popped down to the local pet shop and bought my lady a Maltese every time she mentioned wanting another, we'd have to buy a farm." At the mention, he picked a strand of dog fur off of his sleeve.

Sherlock ran his tongue over his front teeth as he continued to observe Ewert, apparently making up his mind to join us back on our side of the desk.

"Was Mr. Monkford a regular?" John inquired.

"No," He shrugged, "seemed like a normal enough guy, in good spirits, good taste in cars. Can I ask what happened to him?"

Sherlock ignored the question, "Did you have a nice holiday, Mr. Ewert?"

"Sorry?" He replied, narrowing his eyes and tilting his head.

"You've been away, haven't you?"

It was visible in his features when the recognition clicked. He seemed all too dismissive when he fluttered his fingers next to his cheek, "This is just - just tanning beds. Spray sometimes when my mum gets on my case about the health effects, all that. I work too much to leave the city these days." He chuckled.

"Have you got any change?" Sherlock persisted.

"Change?"

Sherlock rambled with mounting anxiety, "For the cigarette machine. It's rather embarrassing, but we've had a long afternoon and the thought of now having not establishing further leads is -" If my curiosity wasn't already peaked by whatever was motivating his current thought processes, it surely was now.

"I got it, mate. Just hold on. I'll check, alright?" Ewert cut him off and sighed as he opened his wallet, "Afraid I'm coming up empty."

"Very well then. No worries. Thank you for your time." Sherlock said cheerfully, catching us off guard by turning and taking quick leave. I didn't bother returning Mr. Ewert's smile as we left.

"Are you going to tell us what all of that was about?" John inquired, scratching his neck as he shot one more glance at the rental agency after our exit.

"I needed to see the contents of his wallet."

"What did that tell you?" I questioned.

"Everything I need to know. Mr Ewert is a liar." He smirked victoriously. His satisfaction was contagious, even though it hardly felt as though we played a part in any of his successes. The detective had been in his element the last couple of days, and as much as my nerves had been frazzled, I almost dreaded the excitement of this case being _over_. How would one return to normalcy after this? The thought of putting on a dress the following evening and simply going out for dinner seemed frivolous and uncanny.

"I can assure you these won't be of much use, but here." I tossed the notepad into Sherlock's lap as we jumped into the car.

"Bart's." He stated simply, flipping to the page I'd filled.

"On it."

I chewed on my bottom lip as I turned the possibility of the fastest route over in my head, abruptly making a u-turn and shooting us back towards the city centre.

"Good call." Sherlock stated, having not even removed his eyes from my slanting scrawl.

The hours between breakfast and lunch were bustling, with tourists and local students on summer holiday crowding the streets and jaywalking as they pleased. I took a deep, frustrated breath as a hoard of young boys leisurely strolled in front of my vehicle, some pausing in the middle of the street to take pictures of themselves around a broken road sign.

"This isn't half bad, you know. Verging on extraneous, but entirely up to scratch." Sherlock offered during the forced stop, finally closing the notepad.

"I'm glad," I raised my eyebrows in surprise at the unexpected praise, "I knew all of those afternoons filled with museum cataloguing had to count towards something."

I skirted around traffic cones and roadblocks because of summer construction, feeling relieved when I finally pulled in front of Saint Bartholomew's.

"Just drop me off." Sherlock stated, closing the door behind him before either of us could contest.

"What?" John asked frustratedly as he stepped out of the car, repeating himself with even greater and louder vexation, "_What_?"

"Go get lunch. You get testy when you haven't eaten, John - I'm just being proactive. Keep your phones on." He bellowed from the top of the steps before slipping inside.

John stood defeatedly outside of the car for a handful of seconds before running his hands through his hair and slumping into the passenger seat.

"Why do I feel as though I've been stood up?" John huffed.

"He has a point." I mentioned with a friendly smirk.

"I _know!" _John said loudly, "That's what's frustrating!"

"Why don't you pick a pub then? You're the connoisseur."

"Bishops Finger." He stated confidently, quickly abandoning any cantankerousness. "Park on the next block if you can."

My brown Oxfords splashed through puddles as the afternoon's unpredictable weather took an even soggier turn. We hustled into the comforting warmth of the old establishment, its storefront painted black with gold details and lanterns invitingly lit because of the stormy skies. The walls were lined with old photographs and paintings, the tavern not exceedingly busy but beginning to fill with patrons - many with dripping hair and noses red from the cold. I sipped from a cup of strong tea as we sat at our little corner table and waited for our meals.

"How's Sarah?" I asked.

"Sarah's good." John said bluntly.

"Is there cause for brevity?" I cradled the warm mug between my palms as I watched sheets of rain come down outside.

"No, no." He chuckled, "It's just that I hardly expect anyone to express interest. We get wrapped up in a case and everything else gets pushed to the wayside, and for good reason," he emphasised, "but it's to the point that _I _almost forget I have a personal life."

I recognised that though we lately had been spending the majority of our time together, we still had slivers of an existence outside of each other's company. I didn't take for granted our collective ability to devote ourselves to these cases, unsure how John was compensated for his efforts and grateful that I didn't have any financial worries or pressure to find a job. Even though I didn't receive or expect pay, I was certain that tagging along on these adventures was exceedingly more taxing and far more rewarding than any other legitimate or more sensible career opportunity I could pursue.

I hadn't realised how hungry I was until a plate of ham, eggs, and chips was set in front of me. John tucked into his steak and ale pie as I turned the ringer of my phone on, not wanting to miss any sort of communication from Sherlock.

"You're going to take him to the planet thingy?" John pointed to my mobile and asked through a mouthful of golden pastry and mashed potatoes.

"I don't know," I said sincerely.

"Do you _want _him to go?"

I popped a small chip into my mouth as I thought about it, "An evening at the theatre with Sherlock Holmes? I don't think I could pass up that sort of opportunity. Ultimately, though, it's up to him."

"As much as I'm sure he's wanting to go, you'll have to be the one to bring it up first." He smiled knowingly.

"I know."

He pointed his butter knife at me while chewing, a meditative look in his eyes, "You know what? I think you're very good for him."

"How so?" My cheeks betrayed me yet again that afternoon, but I hid my face behind my mug as I took a rather large gulp.

"You're very loosely wound, more patient than most, but simultaneously determined and assertive. You have a broad view of things, which means you can compartmentalise some of his more blatant quirks, while recognising that he does _in fact_ have redeeming qualities -"

"You do realise that you could be describing yourself?" I added.

He paused mid chew and squinted one eye, "Patient?"

I frowned lightly, "I retract that statement."

"For the better." He smiled lopsidedly, "Either way, you're a positive influence, whether you accept it or not."

We took our time in the pub, drawing out our meals as we waited for any word from Bart's. John finally decided to grab an ale after an hour and a half of waiting.

"Is there any harm in just _going _to the lab?" I asked wearily, my cheek resting on my palm as I watched a passerby struggle to keep their Labrador from charging forward on its walk.

"I'm a notch," John held his pointer finger a centimetre from his thumb, "too stubborn for that."

"He never said we couldn't join him."

"He also told us to keep our phones on, which implies he'd rather summon us when necessary."

"He'd only rather you not be grumpy."

"If I have to resort to buying a second pint," he checked his watch, "then he need not worry."

I was lackadaisically flipping through a London events magazine when my phone finally vibrated.

_Be here in five._

We made our hurried way back to Saint Bart's. It was refreshing to spend a proper amount of time alone with John, but I couldn't deny that as the hour wore on, I began to miss having Sherlock around to complete the trio. He remained rather secretive after climbing into the car, only guiding me to the police car pound to touch base with Lestrade. Once there, we naturally followed Sherlock, who was glued to his phone and continuously typing as we strolled. For the second time that day, we found ourselves in the company of the blood stained Mazda.

"Oy!" Lestrade called from across the lot as he strolled over, "All right?"

"Thriving." Sherlock tapped his foot.

"What have you got for us?" Lestrade crossed his arms and settled next to the passenger side.

"How much blood was on that seat?"

"Er - we got about a pint."

"_No, _not 'about' a pint. It was exactly a pint. That was their first mistake. The blood is definitely Ian Monkford's, but it's been frozen."

My lips parted slightly in surprise when Sherlock made his findings known, thoroughly impressed by his discovery.

"What?" Lestrade's features scrunched in minor disbelief.

"Its previous state became very apparent as I ran my tests. Monkford had likely donated a pint of his blood some time ago and that's what was spread on the seats."

"Any inkling as to _who_ spread it, though?"

"Janus Cars. The clue is in the name." Sherlock raised a brow as he glanced in my direction.

"It all seems so obvious now." I muttered.

"The god with two faces!" John said enthusiastically.

"They provide a very special service. Regardless of your troubles, whether they be legal, financial, marital - Janus Cars will help you disappear. Monkford was neck deep in something, odds-on involving money as he's a banker. There was no way out, was there? Aside from the _ultimate _way out. If he were to vanish and his car be found spattered with his blood, well, he's good as permanently gone."

"You know where he is." I gathered.

"Colombia."

"Blimey, that's a bit of a trek." Lestrade exclaimed.

"Mr. Ewert had a twenty thousand Colombian peso note in his wallet. He had a very apparent tan line, which obviously doesn't coincide with his tanning bed excuse. Even if he _weren't _in his right mind, he wouldn't pop into one after work still sporting his button down shirt. Evelyn -" I lifted my eyes to his at the unexpected mention of my name, "you noted the irritation of his arm, his frequent scratching?"

"Travel vaccinations." I stated slowly, connecting the dots.

"Attagirl. In summation, Ewert had just returned from helping our missing Monkford to settle into his new life in Colombia. Mrs. Monkford will have cashed the life insurance and split it with Janus Cars."

Lestrade stood with a hand wrapped around his chin and a slack jaw as he processed all of the insight that had just been thrust upon us.

"What are you waiting for? Things to do, people to see, arrests to be made." Sherlock said matter of factly, giving him a light slap on the shoulder on our way out of the lot.

"First-class job, yet again." John remarked to the detective as we neared our parking spot.

"I _know!" _Sherlock declared, brimming with excitement and the thrill of the chase, "Time to get in touch with the captain of this ship - kindly let him know that the jig is up for Janus."


	14. Chapter 14

The evening was quiet upon our return to Baker Street. We started a fire in the boys' flat and huddled next to its warmth as we sent our message to whomever was orchestrating the nightmarish circumstances of the last two days. I finally heard the panic stricken and tearful voice of the afternoon's hostage, grateful that I only had to bear witness to his pleas and turmoil with the assurance that the case had already been cracked. Mrs. Hudson eventually came upstairs to check on us, and I felt anxious over the inevitability of her mentioning the encroaching dinner plans. I wasn't entirely certain as to where the reluctance was coming from, but I was thankful that she was instantly distracted by the large, roaring fire.

"Put that out this _instant, _you three! We were specifically instructed not -"

"Newsflash, Mrs. Hudson, there was no gas leak." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

I had quietly slipped out as Sherlock and John argued with the stubborn landlady, who was brandishing a kettle filled with water and not afraid to use it. I popped into her flat later in the night, commenting on her cheeky doings but vocalising my graciousness that she thought me so suitable a match for someone so close to her. I refused to look at any pictures of Henry, wanting everything surrounding dinner the following evening to be as organic as possible (aside from the fact that it had been arranged by my date's aunt).

I slept surprisingly soundly after watching a game show and having an evening tipple with Mrs. Hudson, the exhaustion of the day somehow outweighing an ocean of swimming thoughts. I startled awake early in the morning, my body surely under the impression that any sort of thorough rest these days was too good to be true and verging on suspicious. I squinted into the darkness of my room and rubbed my eyes, feeling lost without the prospect of any sort of schedule or plans or bomb threats. I stood to move my bedroom curtains aside, frowning when the fog of sleep waned and the clarity hit that my windows were still very much boarded up.

I slipped into comfortable clothes to compensate for whatever I'd inevitably be wearing for dinner, pulling on a soft, lavender coloured jumper and black trousers. Getting properly dressed only to drink my morning coffee while leaning against the sink in a tired daze felt rather pathetic, but living on Baker Street for even only a brief amount of time had taught me that there was value in always being prepared.

I settled into the couch with a second cup and switched on the telly, only half focused as I watched a cake shop owner from Brighton decorate a black forest gateau on the more lighthearted morning news. My cat sauntered over and curled up at my feet, inclined to demand attention but not affection. Forty minutes had passed, and now a local couple was chatting with the anchors about their urban rabbit problem and the loss of their summer squashes. As the wife listed all of the futile rabbit proofing measures they'd taken, I began to hear footfalls in the hallway outside. I didn't necessarily _expect_ a knock on my door, but I would be lying if I said I wasn't already halfway across my living room when it sounded.

"Morning." I said loudly.

"Breakfast?" John asked simply, his voice muffled through the wood.

I smiled to myself as I grabbed my wallet, delighted by the idea of spending a portion of these early hours simply sitting in a coffee shop; nothing more, nothing less.

"Lead the way then." I stated as I finally stepped into the hallway. Sherlock's tall figure was leaning against the wall as he picked at something on his sleeve while John stood with crossed arms and his fairly standard tight lipped grin.

The morning air was crisp but the sun shone brightly, reflecting off of lingering puddles from heavy evening rain. We ventured past Speedy's, which was still closed, and turned down a dead end lane that was lined with looming brick homes, most ornamented with eye-catching flower boxes, and all surrounding a lone, family owned cafe. Beams of golden light shone through the old windows, illuminating the otherwise dark space.

"He was bored." John explained as we settled into our seats. Sherlock flicked the string of the small lamp at our table with a discontented look on his face.

"I'm not bored _yet,_" He countered, tossing the pink mobile onto the tabletop, "and John won't admit that he was feeling antsy."

"Quiet morning, I gather."

"So far. Let's hope it stays that way." John remarked whilst cracking open the day's paper.

"Let _us _hope?" Sherlock frowned, lolling his head towards his partner.

"Oh no, John, clearly not the place nor the time for plural pronouns." I remarked flatly, surveying the straightforward menu.

"I want to note that I _do_ pick up on the sarcasm before I proceed to tell you that, though you're being sardonic, you're still correct." Sherlock replied.

The waitress placed mugs of tea down at our table, steam rolling off the tops of the milky, red toned liquid and catching invitingly in the sunlight. I sipped from the oversized cup - not necessarily wise in consideration of the caffeine already coursing through my system.

John stated wearily, "You have to admit, we've barely had a chance to catch our breath since this all started."

"Your snoring last night would beg to differ."

"You know what? I'm not saying anything until I get my food. Talk amongst yourselves while I enjoy my paper, drink my tea, and _breathe._"

We placed our orders, Sherlock visibly on edge as he waited for the pink mobile to sound. It clearly wasn't a nervous impatience, but one rooted in eagerness and excitement. This case was already proving to be his lifeblood, and I dreaded the crash he'd undoubtedly endure upon its conclusion. If he had already resorted to shooting up the walls that past week, I assumed he'd take to much more drastic measures the next. Something in the paper had inspired John to laugh to himself and shake his head.

"Don't tell me - rabbits?" I queried.

"How did you know?" His eyes widened in surprise and what could only be described as fear.

"The story apparently called for both a write up and a telly interview this morning." I shrugged.

"For a moment there I was afraid I had two Sherlocks to contend with."

"I think the world would combust. London, at least." I offered with a glance at the detective.

"It still just might." John gestured towards the phone still resting on the table.

I resisted the urge to completely wolf down my bowl of porridge, attempting to match John's pace as Sherlock exhibited no signs of having an appetite. My spoon paused midway between the bowl and my mouth when the pink phone illuminated, showcasing that there was one new message to be worked out. Its standard beeps and pips sounded before a photograph of a familiar looking woman popped up on the screen - she was smiling, not exhibiting any fear or possessing any visible panic in her gaze, which was an optimistic start.

"How do I know her?" I scrunched my nose.

"She looks like fifteen percent of all middle-aged women in London." Sherlock observed.

"Because that fifteen percent likely _watch_ her," John smiled with raised brows as he stood and walked to the bar, grabbing the clicker and turning on the cafe's television, "Connie Prince ring any bells?"

"No."

"That's right." I muttered after John had finally settled onto the correct channel - a makeover show, one that was a constant presence during any morning channel surf.

"Before you even ask, Mrs. Hudson and I have watched our fair share of television." John assured.

"Nothing here to judge, John, don't worry." I chuckled lightly, meeting Sherlock's gaze when the phone unsurprisingly rang. The conversation was almost entirely one sided, Sherlock hardly even breathing as he listened to whatever was happening on the other line. He looked relatively unsettled when the call ended, frowning a tinge as he lowered the device. As Connie worked her audience with a cheerful smile, the program was interrupted by an alert:

**Connie Prince. Dead at 48.**

I gasped quietly, my eyes transfixed to the screen and the newly flashing headline. These cases had been far from innocent or mild, but the possibility of someone dying had almost seemed fantastical. I dropped my spoon back into my breakfast, my appetite now level with Sherlock's lack thereof.

"Oh hell." John broke the stunned silence.

"We'll be receiving a call from Lestrade at any moment," Sherlock stated quickly, pulling out his own mobile and throwing some cash on our table, gesturing to make certain the waitress was aware of it, "Walk."

We hurried along the route home, no longer actively admiring the sunbeams hitting red begonias or small birds bathing alongside the curb. Sherlock spoke briefly with New Scotland Yard about what course of action we were to take before hanging up and filling us in on the call.

"It was an old woman this time. Blind. Northern. Yorkshire, most likely, judging by the accent."

"And how long do we have?" The corners of John's lips turned intensely downward.

"Twelve hours."

Once in front of our building, we got situated in my car and speedily made the trip to Bart's, where Connie's body was being held. The fact that this curfew was three hours longer than the previous made me uneasy - was that because the potential bomber thought this particular case was exceedingly difficult? I had faith in Sherlock, but surely even he couldn't hit a home run every single night. I fidgeted as I thought about the fact that I likely wouldn't be seeing this one through, rather, sitting in some French restaurant with the knowledge that all hell was potentially on the cusp of breaking loose. Could I allow myself to be like any other blissfully clueless Londoner for a night? Doubtful.

"Should I just drop you two off?" I proposed as I pulled in front of the old building.

"Drop us off?" Sherlock confirmed, his eyebrows coming together.

"… Yes," I started slowly, "You're going to examine a body. What use am I beyond getting you here?"

This had apparently stumped Sherlock, but he made up for the momentary lapse by stating, "You're not meritless," before slamming the passenger side door. I turned my head back towards the wheel, surprised by the sentiment. When I joined the boys outside, I hoped to convey some sort of wordless thanks to Sherlock with a singular nod before we took off towards the hospital's door.

Being privy to any sort of rare insight into a public figure's life (and, more rarely, death) felt all too voyeuristic for my liking and, ultimately, wrong. Many details surrounding the bombing that killed my mother had been made public thanks to the case being unsolved and wildly high profile, and though I did my best to put a stopper to any of those thoughts or morbid curiosities, that sort of looming knowledge would be impossible for anyone to stomach or snuff out. As uncomfortable as I felt even being in the same room as Connie Prince's corpse, a resolute determinedness overwhelmed me as I observed her features. I was here to help, albeit in my own pathetic and small capacity.

"Connie Prince. Fifty-four." My ears perked up as Lestrade gave us the briefing - the news had reported her as being forty-eight. "She had a makeover show on the telly. You've seen it?"

"No." Sherlock replied, very subtly turning towards John.

"Very popular. She was going places."

"Not anymore," Sherlock muttered, my eyes widened in surprise as I looked from him to her dead body. I could have chastised the insensitive remark, but then I slowly supposed he was right. It wasn't insensitive, it was the truth, and the truth was harsh. "So, she's been dead two days? According to Raoul de Santos, a member of her staff, she cut her hand on a rusty nail in the garden. Painful business."

"That can't be it." My eyes crinkled with skepticism.

No one spoke as Sherlock got closer to her body, his eyes scanning her cheek when he stated, "Surely… Something's very wrong. It's not as though they've allotted us twelve hours for a simple, dead end case of Tetanus."

He continued to scrutinise the parts of her body that weren't under a sheet, at one point pulling out a magnifying glass to assist in his inspection, "John, the cut on her hand - it's deep. It would have bled a lot, correct?"

"Definitely."

"But the wound is clean. _Too _clean… and very fresh. How long would the bacteria have been incubating inside her?"

"Little over a week," John shrugged, "eight or nine days, specifically."

I chewed on the inside of my lip as I turned all of the available information over in my head, realising very quickly that nothing about this was adding up.

"The cut was made later." John ascertained.

"I can't conjure up any other possibility." I agreed.

"Now, my question is, how did it enter the woman's system?" Sherlock's eyes glinted with plans and possibilities as he surveyed the linoleum under our feet, "Would you two be willing to collect data?"

"Collect data?" John repeated.

"There are micro dots that need to be connected regarding Connie Prince's personal life."

"Where do you need us to go? Her studio? Her home?" I inquired.

"The studio is undoubtedly dark today, but perhaps there are essential coworkers that would be willing to talk. _Most _importantly, however, I'll just need you to head to the home she shared with her brother in Hampstead." His eyes met briefly with mine.

_Hampstead. _The area of the city that had been what I expected to be my lifelong dwelling up until this year. It was only a stone's throw away from Baker Street, but I hadn't returned to the neighbourhood since moving out of my family home. I had rushed the process, not even giving the house a farewell glance before I made the one-way drive to 221C. The case felt even more personal knowing that Connie and I had shared the same local shops, cafes, streets, perhaps even the same dentist.

"We'll do it." I nodded, also speaking for John as I knew he was feeling the same level of determination that I was.

"I'll get in touch with Kenny Prince. Let him know he should be expecting guests this afternoon." Lestrade stated, giving Connie one final grimace before yawning and taking his leave, "You lot as well. I'll swing by your place in a bit."

Once back on Baker Street, I figured I'd make myself look more presentable. Though Connie's brother would likely be shocked into emotionlessness or actively mourning, I knew Hampstead, and though I didn't personally know the Princes or the deceased, I wanted to connect with them as fully as I could. I tucked a vintage white satin blouse with lace trim into my trousers, still keeping my makeup minimal to compensate for later, with the exception of a red toned lip balm. I spritzed on perfume and pulled my dark waves into a sleek enough updo, tilting my head at the reflection staring back at me in the bathroom mirror. Something seemed off until I looped in a pair of dainty silver earrings.

"Looking smart." John commented as we stepped out into the sun once again. Even though I was the tenant with the basement flat, we were now on an even playing field with our boarded up dwellings, both subconsciously tilting our faces towards the warm sky.

"Just playing to Hampstead's sensibilities."

"Is this a side of you we've yet to uncover?"

"Dignified?" I snorted as we buckled into our seats.

"_Posh._"

"I spent twenty years actively rebelling against 'posh,' John."

"By my calculations there are seven years that still need to be accounted for."

"Casual rebellion," I pursed my lips slightly to hide the cheeky smile that still broke through.

The drive to the Prince home was barely a quarter of an hour, and as the tree lined streets gave way to heavy fences and iron gates, I felt an odd rush of comfort and closure. Familiar red brick manors loomed behind hedges and stone walls, elaborate row houses flitted past our windows before transitioning into ornamented and fussy storefronts. My hands tensed around the wheel as I passed my old street sign, not letting my eyes flicker down the ever familiar lane. I pulled in front of the Princes' gate and furrowed my brows, collecting my thoughts for a meditative second.

"Alright?" John inquired quietly.

"Yes," I said quickly, pausing for a few moments before vocalising my anxious and scattered musings, "Living in Hampstead felt so secure, _so _withdrawn, aloof, almost, which I always resented. The fact that someone here was roped into this… I lived just a couple of blocks that way," my anxious gaze shot to the right, "In London terms we were practically neighbours. I've walked down this street countless times-"

"We should go." John stated firmly.

My breath caught at the statement and I quickly realised I was being foolish, "Of course, John. You're right. This isn't about me, I'm -"

"_No. _We should go." He repeated as I loosened my hurried grasp and let my seat belt roll back, squinting my eyes slightly in confusion, "After this. To see your old place."

"We - we should?"

"Yes." He stated simply.

I inhaled deeply when I stepped out of the car, finally allowing myself to drink in our surroundings. The trees were lush and green, their long and creeping branches swaying lazily in the breeze. Before turning around I knew there was a particularly nasty patch of uneven sidewalk that I always avoided on my childhood bicycle, a small scar on my knee an everlasting reminder of why. The corners of my mouth turned up faintly as I caught sight of a favourite Edwardian home of mine, multiple chimneys shooting out at odd angles and intricate stone work weaved into the dark brick.

"Okay." I finally replied.

The Prince home was everything you'd expect from this part of London, inside and out. We stood in front of the fence and exchanged uncertain expressions before John shrugged, "They know we're coming," and pushed open the gate. The garden was manicured to a pretentious degree, and the doorbell nearly sounded like a pipe organ when I pressed the buzzer.

"For all intents and purposes, we're journalists." John whispered hurriedly.

I had just opened my mouth to respond when, to my surprise, a dapper young man opened the door with a nod and an earnest grin, gesturing for us to enter the polished home.

"Evelyn… Hudson," I caught myself before saying my full name, unsure what good lying about our occupations would be if John's blog was just an internet search away, "and this is John Bennett." I smiled sombrely with a reassuring handshake.

"Raoul de Santos." I recognised the young man's name as being part of her staff.

"Afternoon. Er - you received a call before this… Did they do an adequate job of filling you in on our visit? Do you have any questions for us?" John inquired.

"No, no…" Raoul dismissed, "We just want to help. Whatever you need from us."

"Your willingness to chat is much appreciated." I said sincerely.

"They're here, Raoul?" A person who I assumed was Kenny inquired from the next room. John shot me a humorous look behind Raoul's back that conveyed the word _obviously, "_Kenny Prince." The man sighed rather dramatically as he stepped into view.

"Thank you for welcoming us into your home. Evelyn Hudson."

"John Bennett."

"Pleasure, you two. Please, have a seat." Kenny urged.

The sitting room was airy and elegant, but simultaneously austere and unwelcoming. I swiftly caught eyes with a hairless cat that was perched on the arm of a sofa and swishing its tail rather agitatedly. I had hardly blinked in the time it took for John to sit on the side opposite the feline, shooting me an unapologetic expression as I slowly lowered myself onto the cushion, wary of the creature.

"Can I get either of you anything?" Raoul inquired.

"Er, no thanks." John mumbled.

"Sparkling water, if you have any?"

"I'm a seltzer lover myself." Kenny remarked before snapping his fingers once and smiling, "Make it two, my friend." His smile lingered as he watched Mr. de Santos leave the room before continuing, "Raoul is my rock. I don't think I could navigate all of this without him by my side. My sister and I may have not always seen eye to eye, but she was a special woman. We'll miss her dearly." I remained poker faced, though something about Kenny immediately struck me as suspicious.

"The public will as well, Mr. Prince." John stated while simultaneously sliding a small notepad with a pen stuck through its spiral binding onto my lap. The cat perked its ears at the sound of the pen rubbing against plastic as I removed it, for some reason all of the encouragement it needed to jump across my lap and onto John's. I fended off the urge to crack a smirk.

"They will, won't they. She loved what she did, and she was marvellous at it. Some of those girls she made up looked as though the production team had drug them out of storm drains, but she never missed in the end, did she…" Kenny smiled wistfully as he leaned against the mantle.

"She possessed a great deal of talent." I encouraged, covertly raising an elbow as I scribbled notes so John couldn't succeed in pushing the nosey cat onto my lap.

"Here we are." Raoul chimed in, extending a condensation speckled bottle my way.

"Thank you," The cat was intrigued by the moisture covered glass, sticking its nose into my hands, "What's her name?"

"Sekhmet. Named after the Egyptian goddess. She was Connie's." Kenny remarked.

"Lovely." John said flatly.

"Is she yours now? Along with the house, I'm assuming?" I probed, letting my stare roam about the elegant space.

"Oh, yes. I suppose it is _mine_ now…"

The afternoon wore on more swiftly than I'd have preferred, much due to my dread of the evening and Kenny being far more willing to talk than either of us had anticipated. Butterflies crept in every time I checked the ornate clock on the mantle, realising that if things didn't wrap up quickly, I'd have to leave John here alone.

"Shall we make some tea?" Kenny proposed as we hit a lull in the conversation.

"I'd never say 'no' to tea." I replied, smiling until Kenny and Raoul turned the corner and made their leave.

"John, I have to go." I whispered.

"What? Why?" His eyes searched mine as he placed a hand on the back of the sofa and sat up straighter, "Are you alright?"

"Yes… well, not really." His eyes squinted in concern and I stammered slightly, "It's nothing bad, though I suppose I can't say that until I know, because it very well could be, but it's inherently positive, I - I have a date."

"A date?"

"A date." I frowned slightly.

"With?" He asked slowly.

"Henry Hudson."

"_Hudson?"_

"Hudson," I confirmed with a nod, unable to make eye contact, "Have you met him?"

"I can't say I have. How -" John shook his head, confusion lacing his features.

"Mrs. Hudson arranged it. The other night I agreed to do her a favour and she clearly ran with the sentiment. If I'd have known this case would play out the way it was going to tonight, I -"

"No, no." John laughed, finally smiling. "This is _good_. I'm happy for you. I'd say I'm envious, but I get to spend my evening with Kenny Prince." He feigned enthusiasm, "Does Sherlock know?"

"No." I replied simply. John grunted contemplatively, "I'm hardly essential anyways. Here, take these, you'll need them far more than I do. Keep the off-roading to a minimum?" I said, dangling my car keys.

"I can't -"

"I'll take the tube. I _insist, _John."

John sighed and paused for a few moments before finally grabbing my offering, "Thanks. Where will you be tonight? Just in case…"

"La Poule au Pot in Belgravia. In case what?"

"You're in need of swift rescue." John shrugged.

"Teatime. Cream and sugar on the side, of course." Kenny announced as Raoul brought in the tray.

"Thank you for your time today, gentlemen. The paper just called for one of us to interview a tailor in Knightsbridge, so I'm afraid I have to be off. I'm so sorry for your loss, please know you have my sincerest sympathies."

The men and I exchanged handshakes and farewells before I stepped back into the late summer air. I made the familiar walk to the tube station I'd bounced in and out of daily during my teenage years, determined to learn the underground lines like the back of my hand. I once again averted my eyes when I walked past my old street, feeling that revisiting it was something I could only do with company. I didn't doddle on the high street for risk of running into someone that I knew, wanting to reserve any spare time to touch base with Baker Street's resident detective if necessary.

I closed my eyes as the tube rocked back and forth on its brief journey, the smell of the coffee the passenger next to was cradling proving to be an unexpected comfort. I funnelled out of the Baker Street station with snappily dressed commuters, shakily sighing as I calmed my nerves and collected my wits. I felt as though I was standing in a dark room, facing multiple doors that lead to the unknown. This night could prove to be a blip, or an uncomfortable encounter, or the start of a grand life chapter. I paused at the bottom of Sherlock's stairs, hesitating with a hand on the banister before letting myself walk past.

x

**My apologies if this chapter was a bit slow - the next will surely prove to be… interesting :-)**


	15. Chapter 15

So, er... don't hate me?

x

I was no stranger to uncertainty, unpredictability and I had an ongoing relationship, and doubt was my constant companion. I waded through crashing waves of each as I faced myself in the mirror. I had opted for a black dress - its hem fell a few inches above my knees, with long, faintly billowing sleeves that daintily cuffed at the wrist. The neckline was low and square and felt secure, something about the tightness of the bodice making me feel comforted and sound. I ran a large curling iron through my hair, loosening up and defining the deep brown waves that still fell as they wanted to, no matter how much control I attempted to exercise.

6:15.

John had yet to return from the Prince residence, and I hadn't received any word or visit from Sherlock, though I assumed he was upstairs or roaming the streets with Lestrade. I'd allow John to fill the detective in, and that's if he cared enough to notice or ask. After all, I knew that my presence wasn't invaluable.

_6:20. _

I was shaken from running a hand across my cat's back when there was a quiet but urgent knock at my door. I slid on my trusty black Oxfords, not feeling any need to go the extra mile with heels for the night. My stomach flipped with the possibility of Henry being on the other side. I doubted he'd make an appearance ten minutes early, but if I'd learned anything in the last year, it's that I was no master in predicting the actions of others.

"Mrs. Hudson." I declared softly and surprisedly upon opening my door.

"Evelyn." She put a hand over her mouth while the other grasped my upper arm, "You are a _vision_. A little colour one of these days wouldn't kill you, but -"

"It wouldn't?" I muttered sarcastically.

"I'll leave in a minute. I don't want to insert myself too much," _Aside from being the sole reason this is happening, _I thought to myself lovingly, amused, "but who would I be if I didn't wish you luck and see you off? You really are beautiful, dear."

I winced slightly, though I hoped it presented itself as a smile. Taking compliments with grace had never been a strength of mine.

"You are a spitting image of her." She stated with a solemn and wistful smile, her eyes growing misty as she let her fingers tenderly swipe across my cheek. I exhaled softly at her maternal touch, my eyes closing as I drank in the comfort and willed away any tears, though I couldn't prevent the sides of my mouth from quivering momentarily. I was reminded that my mother left behind dozens that loved her fiercely. I was not alone in my grief, and I was not _alone. _I remained wordless as I pulled Mrs. Hudson into a hug, hoping to convey the love and devotion and gratitude I felt for her.

"Thank you. For _everything_."

She covertly wiped her own tears as she pulled away and walked into her flat, "Enjoy yourself."

_Enjoy yourself. _In an instant, the waves of anxiety diminished. That was all that this night boiled down to. How many first dates had I been on before? How many had been cataclysmically awful? None. Born with a tendency to mentally overcomplicate even the simplest of moments and purest of experiences, it was often that I needed a shove towards the straightforward reality of things. I'd be damned if I was going to allow myself to deliberately sabotage any form of potential happiness, frivolity, or, so help me, romance.

_6:31._

There was a not so distant creaking and shutting sound, my heart eagerly racing with every footfall that neared my door, inhaling deeply in an attempt to ground myself as a rather timid knock sounded. I turned the knob with my eyes downcast, letting them flicker upwards to take in the figure in front of me. He was dressed smartly but unpretentiously - a white button up tucked into sand coloured wool trousers, his shoes dark and seemingly freshly shined. His hair was light brown, with tight waves that were like the rest of him; groomed, but unostentatious. His lopsided smile instantly struck me as charming and as warm as his deep brown eyes.

"Henry." I grinned, thankful that the word didn't come out as breathlessly as I'd expected.

"Evelyn," He stated in return, chuckling lightly, "Forgive me, I know showing up only a minute 'late' isn't the most fashionable, but I haven't had plans like this in a while and I have to profess my excitement."

"At the risk of sounding sincere, I'm afraid I have to profess excitement as well."

"A bit early in the evening for sincerity, no?" He jested.

I couldn't fend off a smirk as I closed my door behind me, "I would invite you to pop in, but the boarded up windows don't do the flat any favours."

"That's right. I was shocked to hear about that, but relieved that windows were the only loss, of course."

_And a few croissants _I thought to myself.

"Do you reckon we should say-" I started.

"No, no!" Mrs. Hudson called out from behind her door that we were stationed in front of, clearly eavesdropping, "Don't worry about me, you two go on and get your evening started."

Henry and I exchanged knowing, amused expressions before he sent a small wave in the direction of her door as we parted ways with the comfortable familiarity of my hallway. _Here we go, _I thought to myself.

"Did you have to travel very far?" I inquired as we stepped into the night air, nodding my thanks as the door was held open for me (a courtesy I had grown accustomed to living without).

"No, no. My flat is in Wandsworth."

"So you live _across _the river."

"Yes, and if that means that dinner cannot progress further then I completely understand."

I joined him in laughing, taken by how natural everything already felt. Henry told me about his job at an architectural firm as we walked to the tube station, and I was tickled by how much he talked with his hands. The tube was filled with university aged students, many in flashy dress for an evening out at the pub or club or a party (or _all_ of the aforementioned). We stood in front of the train's doors, holding onto the bar above us, feet firmly planted to avoid tumbling into one another as we stood in close proximity. When we reached the Bond Street station, a handful of travellers cleared out. My cheeks burned when I felt a gentle touch brush my upper arm, Henry gesturing to a pair of open seats.

"Random question, which you'll have to get used to tonight by the way." I clarified with a nudge of my outstretched hand.

"Then I'll prepare for an interrogation. Go on."

"What was your first job?" I asked, my eyes following a briefcase toting businessman as he fell heavily and tiredly into a seat.

Henry expelled hair through his nose in brief, quiet laughter before stating, "You'll laugh."

"I love to laugh."

"Then I suppose I won't spare you. I wrapped candy in a sweets shop."

"But that's charming." I tilted my head as I grinned, "In London?"

"I grew up in Winchester."

"I've been a handful of times. Were you a hometown university boy then?"

"Absolutely not," He smirked, "I fled to Manchester for some independence. It's your turn, though. First job."

"Fair enough, I digressed. I worked in a coffee shop."

"Then you've got me beat."

"I would beg to differ. If we polled everyone on this tube I think most would claim they'd rather be a proficient sweets wrapper than a barista that can hardly froth milk."

The tube rumbled along, any remaining worries finding themselves evaporated with every churn of the engine and rotation of passengers until we reached our desired station. The warm summer night air smelled of flowers, various dinners of open air restaurants, and the standard London bus exhaust. This part of the city reminded me of Paris, with ornate buildings, sparsely spaced trees with sweeping branches, dim street lanterns, and a round advertising kiosk showcasing peeling posters of west end shows that were no longer playing.

"This!" Henry said excitedly, gently grabbing my hand and coaxing me across the English oak lined square. I couldn't help but smile at his earnest delight as we speed walked, feeling like a teenager as the grip of my hand grew reassuringly tighter. "I forgot this was here." He said breathily through a smile as we stopped in front of a black storefront, "Walk up to the windows and take a peek. There's no one inside to judge." He encouraged. My smile didn't falter, though my brow came together in uncertainty, glancing once at his hand before dropping it.

The windows were dim, but I could see twinkling lights inside, unable to place what they were. I rested my hands on my temples and leaned into the grimy windows, the dark interior of the space finally coming into view. I gasped lightly in surprise as I realised the room was filled with miniatures. Though the shop was closed, tiny funiculars rolled along strings across the ceiling, a recreation of Victorian London flickered dimly in front of me, countless small-scale buildings and landmarks and trains lined the shop's walls.

"Have I mentioned how much I love this city?" I stated, my breath fogging up the window as I spoke, "Twenty seven years of exploring and I still manage to be surprised. There isn't even a sign." I remarked as I stepped back and took in the unassuming exterior.

"Ellicott's Miniatures. In the middle of a square but still one of London's best kept secrets, in my opinion."

"It feels like magic; like I'll come back tomorrow and it will be a hardware store instead."

Henry responded by quietly tapping the window three times, only for a small bird to come fluttering over. It perched on top of the miniature St. Paul's cathedral, tilting its head as it observed us. I smiled incredulously as the bird hopped down onto one of the victorian lanes, not taking its eyes off of us as its wings brushed a black carriage, windows glowing orange.

"Shall we?" Henry confirmed, stepping away and towards the restaurant, "It will be here tomorrow, I promise."

"I'll trust you."

The restaurant was around the corner, glowing invitingly in the night, though I had heard the sounds of laughter and clinking silverware in the breeze before seeing it. Tables lined the side of the building, mostly filled with couples and a smattering of their well behaved dogs. Upon stepping inside we were immediately transported to the French countryside; bushels of dried herbs and flowers hung from the ceiling, there were rustic brick walls, ornate candle holders to house the many candles sticks, old paintings, their frames ranging from humble to grandiose. We were led to a secluded table in the corner next to a tiled fireplace, underneath a window that glinted with passing headlights.

"I haven't done anything like this in a long time." I confessed, feeling insecure in the intimate lighting, now entirely focused on being in each other's company. "Apologies are irritating, but I can't bottle this up, so I'll only say it once: forgive me if I'm rusty."

"I hate to break it to you," Henry started as I internally braced myself for what was to follow. He lowered his voice and leaned forward, his tanned skin nearly glowing in the mellow light, "but you're more endearing than you think."

I broke out into a smile, surprised by the sentiment while also realising I had leaned in, subconsciously following his lead.

"How many thirty-one year old men can say that their aunts set them up? And at this point out of the family's pure desperation. I was fully prepared to be apologising all night, and I still just might."

"I won't allow it."

"Very well." He nodded, before slipping on a pair of dark frames to read the menu. "Farsighted." He pointed to his eyes, running his tongue over his teeth as his expression reflected comedic humility.

"Nearsighted." I retorted, pointing at my eyes in return. "We both lose, but we make a complimentary pair."

"Speaking of pair-"

"Wine?" I assumed with a glint in my eyes.

"Yes. Tell me what you're ordering."

"I haven't decided."

"All the same. I don't know the first thing about wine pairings."

I chuckled as he ordered a bottle of something, though I was hardly able to concentrate as I watched him, twiddling his glasses in his fingers, his eyes sincere and kind as he spoke with the waiter. The butterflies in my stomach had returned, but now with warmth instead of impending doom. I had nearly forgotten what I'd ordered the second after the name of the dish left my mouth.

"Red." I stated, squinting my eyes after taking a sip. "It is in fact wine."

"Stirring review. I cannot expound further."

"Did you just get back from holiday?" I queried.

"How-"

"It's been the rainiest summer of the last decade. You didn't get that tan from going to a caravan up north."

"Fair enough," Henry chuckled, "I was in Greece for research, inspiration, all that jazz."

I was self assured that I hid it well, but my heart involuntarily jolted. My mother had died in the parthenon room at the British Museum. I swallowed any distress with a sip of wine, willing away the lingering trauma surrounding what had been one of my favourite areas of study.

"We're working on a building with columns, and, well, any excuse to go to one of my favourite countries and I'm there."

With a few sips of liquid courage on my side, it felt therapeutic to rave on about mythology, ancient greek history, and university studies with someone that felt equally as passionate about it. It had been far too long since I'd allowed myself to even think of the names Athens or Socrates in passing. When a tray of warm bread arrived, the conversation shifted.

"You have to tell me about Sherlock Holmes." Henry shook his head as he took a bite of fig jam smothered bread.

_Sherlock Holmes. _If it weren't for the dim lighting, I was certain my cheeks would have very obviously betrayed me, even with the makeup I was wearing. Sherlock had successfully been absent from my mind since I'd shut the heavy front door of 221 Baker Street. Hearing his name mentioned sent a wave of melancholy through me as I realised how much I longed for his presence, however brooding and mysterious. I felt pitiful. I had been convinced I wouldn't be able to stop thinking about the case tonight, and I had somehow been wrong. Barely an hour with Henry had filled me with comfort and snugness and whimsy, but the reality of what my neighbours were doing as I sat in a French restaurant with an endlessly alluring date had now hit me. I took another sip of wine.

"Sherlock Holmes?"

"We all read the blog. He's an _enigma." _

I inhaled and let my eyes drop to the table, collecting my thoughts. I found it peculiar that most blog readers I spoke with had more questions about the detective than they did about the cases themselves.

"He's unlike anyone you could ever meet. As brilliant as he comes across in John's writing, he's ten times that in person. Same equation applies to his brusqueness. I couldn't have prepared myself when Mrs. Hudson had asked if I wanted the vacancy, and I'm not sure it would be as much fun if I had."

"How did you get roped into all of this in the first place?" He probed.

I scrunched my nose slightly in thought, nearly having forgotten, "They needed a driver."

A plate of steaming soup was set in front of me, bringing me back to the present as I tried in vain to cease thinking of a certain dark haired being.

"Is Holmes working a case right now?"

My mind raced once again, and my ears felt hot with what could only be described as shame - how could I agree to go on a date when the sheer mention of a name nearly gave me heart palpitations? I foolishly thought that my feelings for Sherlock didn't run deep, but in his absence I was realising what I had been reluctant to all along.

"A turbulent one."

Henry's eyes lit up, "Turbulent?"

"The gas leak at our building?"

"Yes?"

"Not a gas leak. A bomb." I said quietly, finally taking a bite of soup.

"A _bomb_?" He whispered, leaning closer. "A bomb. Evelyn, I-I'm so sorry, I know your past-"

"I'm fine." I insisted, sticking a hand out and placing it reassuringly on his wrist. "I told you there's no room for apologies tonight."

He opened his mouth as if to continue on, but shut it before nodding and placing a strong hand on top of mine. My cheeks grew rosy again, fuelling the storm of conflicting emotions I was braving. I outlined everything that we knew so far between bites of bread and soup, then between bites of ratatouille as my main dish was placed in front of me. Henry listened with his mouth sometimes slightly agape, hanging onto every word. Sherlock was attentive in a different way, and I found myself missing the challenge of bantering with him. What was I _missing _though? I had to remind myself that I found myself pining after a man that would run from my feelings the second I wasn't smothering them.

"So there's a threat tonight?" Henry confirmed.

"Every night at this rate."

He sat back in his wooden chair, dark eyes surveying the room in a new light, joining the club of those that realised they truly weren't secure anywhere, even whilst drinking good wine while surrounded by candles and flowers.

"I was going to propose splitting dessert but I'm feeling a tinge too existential." He finally stated, letting his hands flop onto his thighs as he stared at the fireplace.

"I actually think existentialism calls for chocolate mousse." I took a final sip of my wine before placing an order.

Upon finishing the meal and standing, I was made aware of how tingly my cheeks were and the warmth radiating through my chest as a result of the alcohol. I felt light as air as we weaved through tables, not noticing until we were outside that my fingers were delicately laced in his. I couldn't even be sure if I had initiated it.

"Sorry." I mumbled as I dropped his hand.

"For what?" He asked, his brows coming together in amusement.

I racked my brain for why I had said it in the first place, "For apologising, I guess." If this had happened with Sherlock, surely I would have locked myself in my flat for a few days. I reminded myself that Henry was "normal" and that hand holding was, in fact, _not_ extreme.

I caught sight of the grim black facade across the park again as we neared the tube station, giving Henry a delighted side eye as the nippy nighttime breeze blew my hair into my face, "One more time, to make sure it's still there?"

I wrapped both of my hands around his forearm as I began to pull him across the grass, picking up the pace as he quit feigning reluctance. With hurried steps we reached the dark windows once again, the twinkling inside more pronounced as the sky had grown even inkier in the passing hours. I ventured to the opposite storefront display this time, wrapping my fingers around my cheeks and leaning in to find a whirring miniature circus, various tiny acts performing while a circus train encircled the red and white striped tent.

"Still there?" I could hear the smile in his voice.

"You've officially earned my trust."

"Honoured."

"Do you want to walk somewhere?" I offered, peeling myself away from the centimetre tall lion tamer.

"Lead the way." He shrugged with a smirk.

I let my eyes scan the square as we meandered to cross the street; there was a young couple holding hands under a tree, an older gentleman walking a collie, a tall man with a dark cap and coat admiring the war memorial, and a small family examining a foldout map.

"You've shown me a diamond in the rough, so it's only fair I return the favour. It isn't too far away."

"This feels like a test of the city."

"If you've been where we're going, I'll reimburse you for dinner."

"A bold claim. Or just pay for the next one." He jested sincerely, familiar butterflies erupting at the mention.

We told stories of London, bizarre experiences with tourists, even stranger happenings with locals, favourite haunts and possible mutual friends. The streets were bustling enough, pubs busy as ever. I led us down a dark offshoot lane lined with row houses and closed boutiques and cafes.

"You've officially lost me."

I didn't respond with words, only grabbed his hand once again with an impish grin and ducked under a roadblock to head down a narrow alley. Now that we were alone on the stretch of pavement, our footsteps echoed off the buildings lining us. It hadn't rained, but the alley was still damp, making our footfalls sound as though we were in a cavern.

"I'm not sure I even want to know how you found this place."

"Secrets, secrets," I assured him, shooting a glance behind us as I thought I heard another pair of footsteps, but I shrugged it off.

"Close your eyes." I insisted as we neared our destination

"You're asking me to close my eyes in a dark alley?"

I laughed properly before ensuring, "I trust you, do you trust me?"

"I'll decide after this."

"We're here." I stated, shuffling slightly in place as he opened his eyes. I had led him to an alcove in an alley that the neighbourhood had turned into a botanical garden of sorts. Ferns, draping flowers, twisting vines, rose bushes that flourished against the old brick. There were celestial paper lanterns and string lights, an eclectic mix of benches and stools.

"I lied earlier, how did you find this place?" He asked, not taking his eyes off of the greenery as the lights reflected in his brown eyes.

"A childhood friend lived…" I stood closer, pointing to a dark window, "there. This was a rather prime spot to work on school work."

I crossed my arms as I watched him run his hands over a palm frond, leaning in to smell a nearby bloom. Henry was gentle and observant and warm, and I admired it fully in that moment, snuffing out thoughts of black hair, long coats, cold attitudes, powers of observation, the smell of musk and soap…

"It was an ancient practice to drop rose petals into wine," I stated as I drifted to join him, still feeling floaty from the evening's drinks, "to delay drunkenness supposedly. I can't vouch for it, unfortunately." I smiled wistfully as my fingertips traveled over dewdrops on the light pink flower.

"Are rose facts a specialty?" He inquired, his eyes trailing my hand.

"Cleopatra had her living quarters filled with rose petals so that her lover would think of her every time he smelled a rose."

"All thanks to Cupid."

"A layered greek mythology reference. You're good." I said quietly, my breath catching as the hand at his side brushed mine, not realising we had shifted to standing in such close proximity.

I looked down at my fingers resting on the black fabric of my dress, then let my eyes travel up to meet his. I was feeling bold and dazed, and I knew that what I was thinking was inevitable and nearly storybook. I determined that there was no avoiding it, my stomach doing flips as I placed a hand on his upper arm with a feather light touch and the other on his side. I breathed slowly, noticing that he was watching me carefully and with intensity, my knees wobbling slightly with nerves that were welcomed and exhilarating. I shivered when I felt a hand flex and flatten against my back, feeling its warmth.

"You're cold." He observed, my eyes drifting close without my control as I felt the breath of his voice on my lips, followed by something far more substantial.

I couldn't resist smiling as his lips pressed themselves against mine, his hand ticklishly brushing my hair aside and resting gently underneath my jaw, his fingers spreading against my neck. I opened my mouth slightly, feeling my heartbeat thudding in my chest as he accepted the invitation and the kiss grew deeper. Both of my hands found themselves on his sides, curling into the fabric of his shirt and pulling him closer as I stumbled back, trying to find a bench with the back of my calves. He smelled of spice and his skin was inviting and warm in the brisk night, his palms fanned out on the small of my back before reaching out to brace the brick wall I'd been backed into.

We broke for air when we heard what sounded like a tin can skidding across the dark, brick paved alleyway. I bashfully avoided eye contact, walking to peer down the lane before any words could be exchanged. I saw a lone dark figure on the connecting street under a light, walking briskly away. Nothing unusual. It didn't take long for me to feel embarrassed as I wiped the back of my hand across my moistened lips. I was angry that I felt guilty for kissing someone. That I now knew I couldn't give my heart fully to a person without thinking of someone else.

"Let's catch the tube." Henry had joined me in the dark alleyway, standing at my side as we stared at the distant light source at the end of the buildings enveloping us. Our footsteps sounded even louder as we left our roses.


End file.
